GIFT  OF 

PUBLISHER 


CALIFORNIA 


THE  APPLETON 
ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


THE  APPLETON 
ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


Shakspere's  Tragedy  of  Macbeth 

The  Sir  Roger  De  Coverley  Papers. 

George  Ehot's  Silas  Marner. 

Selections  from  Milton's  Shorter  Poems. 

Macaulay's  Essays  on  Milton,  Addison  and 
Johnson. 

Dryden's  Palamon  and  Arcite 

Coleridge's  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 
and  Other  Poems. 

Burke's  Speech  on  Conciliation  With  the 
American  Colonies. 

Select  Addresses  of  Washington,  Webster 
and  Lincoln. 

Carlyle's   Essay  on  Burns. 

Huxley's  Autobiography  and  Essays, 

Lamb,   Selected  Essays. 

Tennyson's   Idylls   of   the  King 

Tennyson's  The  Princess 

Shakspere's  Julius  Caesar 

Shakspere's  Merchant  of  Venice 

Scott's  Ivanhoe 

Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake 

Scott's  Quentin  Durward 

Goldsmith's  The  Traveller  and  The  De- 
serted Village 

Goldsmith's  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield 

Browning's   Select  Poems 

Stevenson's  Treasure  Island 


GEORGE  ELIOT 


SILAS    MARNER 

By  GEORGE  ELIOT 

EDITED  WITH   AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 

J.  ROSE   COLBY,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR   OF   LITERATURE   IN   THE   ILLINOIS 
STATE   NORMAL   UNIVERSITY 

AND  AN  APPENDIX 
BY 

RICHARD  JONES,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR  OF   LITERATURE   IN  VANDERBILT   UNIVERSITIT 


NEW    YORK 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1900 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America  , 


CONTENTS 


PAGS 

Introduction,  the  study  of  fiction 1 

The  text  of  Silas  Marner .25 

Comments  and  questions 277 

Appendix,  college-entrance  examinations  in  English     ,    297 

r 


611209 


SILAS  MARNER 


INTEODUCTIOlSr 

The  Study  of  Fiction 

It  is  a  matter  of  curious  interest  to  the  student  of 
literature  to  observe  how  from  time  to  time  the  domi- 
nant characteristics  of  an  age  create  or  find  expression 
in  a  prevailing  literary  type.  Just  why  the  Elizabethan 
spirit  sought  and  found  expression  in  the  drama  may 
puzzle  us  to  say,  but  we  recognize  that  it  did.  In  fact^ 
so  potent  was  the  sway  of  the  drama  then  that  it  re- 
duced to  its  service  minds  whose  highest  powers  were 
not  dramatic.  In  the  same  way  the  genius  of  the  age 
of  Queen  Anne  found  expression  in  the  essay  and  the 
satire,  and  he  who  would  know  the  age  must  study  it 
there.  It  can  hardly  be  questioned  that  the  character- 
istic literary  form  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  the 
novel.  To  say  this  is,  of  course,  to  say  that  he  who 
would  know  the  nineteenth  century  either  now  or  here- 
after must  become  a  reader  of  novels;  for  while  a  type 
prevails  it  is  the  voice  through  which  the  thought,  the 
passion,  the  baseness,  and  the  aspiration  of  an  age  are 
uttered.  The  prevalence  of  the  novel-reading  habit, 
therefore,  so  much  bemoaned  by  some,  is  really  not  so 
much  a  subject  of  regret  as  evidence  of  an  instinctive, 
groping  desire  for  self-knowledge.     What  is  to  be  re- 

1 


2  SIX  i AS  Marker 

gretted  is  that  the  reading  is  often  so  unintelligent.  One 
has  only  to  listen  to  the  ordinary  gossip  about  books  to 
discover  that  comparatively  few  persons  ever  do  really 
read  one  of  our  better  novels — read  it  understand- 
ingly;  just  as  few  ever  really  read  Shakspere.  But 
this  is  not  so  much  to  be  wondered  at.  "  The  world  of 
books  is  still  the  world.'^  We  serve  a  long  apprentice- 
ship to  life  before  we  know  much  about  it — before  we 
can  even  tell  what  has  happened  to  us,  can  begin  to 
put  things  together,  to  feel  the  connection  between  our 
own  acts  and  our  characters  and  the  circumstances  that 
beset  us.  We  are  longer  yet  in  learning  to  put  ourselves 
in  others^  places,  to  give  up  our  own  point  of  view  and 
see  the  world  and  the  acts  of  another  through  that 
other^s  eyes.  Probably  many  persons  never  reach  the 
stage  in  which  unity  and  meaning  are  given  to  life 
through  the  perception  of  the  relations  in  which  life  is 
involved.  It  is  small  wonder^  therefore,  if  those  to 
whom  life  itself  is  only  a  succession  of  happenings  more 
or  less  joyful  or  painful  read  novels  and  plays  for  what 
they  call  the  story,  the  mere  succession  of  events- 
small  wonder,  but  great  pity.  For  this  is  to  be  in  the 
world  but  not  of  it,  to  be  in  the  way  of  living  yet  never 
live. 

Now,  since  every  r6al  book  is  a  presentation  of  life, 
or  of  some  phase  of  life,  as  it  has  been  seen  by  one  of 
the  larger  minds  among  men,  to  read  a  book  under- 
standingly  is  to  enter  with  intelligence  into  the  life  it 
presents;  to  perceive  the  forces  that  make  it,  and  the 
relations  that  exist  among  them.  The  purpose  of  read- 
ing, therefore,  is  to  come  through  books  of  whatever 
sort  to  a  better  knowledge  of  this  human  nature  in  us^ 
which  is  all  the  time  opening  itself  to  our  consciousness 


INTRODUCTION  3 

in  new  and  perplexing  forms  and  making  the  world  a 
riddle.  We  all  want  and  need  help  in  the  problem  of 
adjusting  our  lives  to  the  social  world,  the  organized  life 
of  man.  And  aside  from  experience,  the  sternest  of 
teachers,  from  actual  contact  with  living  men  and 
women  and  institutions,  we  can  perhaps  do  no  better 
than  have  recourse  to  the  novel  and  the  drama. 

The  subject-matter  here  is  the  most  interesting  pos- 
sible— life  in  the  concrete,  life  as  lived  by  men  and 
women  of  all  sorts,  good  and  bad,  meeting  various  ex- 
periences and  behaving  in  various  ways,  with  conse- 
quences to  themselves  of  divers  kinds.  In  the  best 
books,  in  short,  we  have  to  deal  with  a  world  in  all 
essentials  like  the  actual  world  which  is  so  fascinating 
and  bewildering  to  the  more  thoughtful  reader,  and 
in  which  the  more  thoughtless  heedlessly  lose  them- 
selves. 

In  this  world  the  true  reader  lives  as  seriously  as 
he  may.  He  treats  the  men  and  women  he  finds  there 
as  real  men  and  women.  He  accepts  their  strength 
and  their  weakness  for  what  they  are;  recognizes  in  their 
loves  and  hates  and  jealousies  and  ambitions  and  self- 
abnegations,  in  their  joy  and  in  their  suffering,  emo- 
tions, motives,  and  experiences  natural  to  us  all,  com- 
mon by  virtue  of  the  human  nature  that  is  in  us  all, 
as  therefore  things  not  to  be  ignored,  but  to  be  frankly 
and  honestly  met.  We  may  take  the  common  possession 
of  human  nature  for  granted.  We  are  then  able  to  enter 
into  the  life  in  a  book  and  interpret  it  because  we  find 
in  it  the  very  life  we  know  in  ourselves.  In  this  power 
the  least  experienced  among  us  differ  from  the  most  ex- 
perienced mainly  in  degree.  The  more  of  life  and  of 
understanding  of  life  we  can  bring  to  a  book,  the  more 


4  SILAS  MARKER 

we  find  in  it  and  take  away  from  it.  The  reader  of  the 
greater  training  in  Hfe  and  books  is  able  to  place  char- 
acters more  completely  in  their  environment;  to  per- 
ceive more  clearly  what  a  given  environment  offers  for 
the  development  of  the  native  traits  of  a  character, 
whether  for  good  or  for  evil.  He  has  a  keener  eye  to 
trace  the  action  of  causes  to  their  more  subtle  effects; 
he  better  understands  that  acts  can  be  properly  judged 
only  in  relation  to  circumstances  and  motives;  he  real- 
izes more  fully  the  part  played  by  ignorance  and  inex- 
perience in  determining  human  fates,  realizes  more 
fully,  too,  how  much  of  the  misery  of  the  world  is  caused 
by  weakness  rather  than  by  positive  evil.  He  distin- 
guishes more  sharply  than  the  inexperienced  can  dis- 
tinguish between  an  act  and  the  doer  of  it;  is  at  once 
more  strict  in  marking  an  evil  act  as  evil,  and  more 
compassionate  in  judging  the  evil-doer.  And  further, 
while  the  inexperienced  are  still  demanding  the  ren- 
dering of  poetic  justice,  still  demanding  that  the  deed 
shall  return  upon  the  doer  in  its  own  kind  in  manner 
visible  to  all,  the  reader  of  broader  outlook  has  lived 
and  seen  enough  to  know  better.  He  is  clear-eyed 
enough  to  see  and  honest  enough  to  acknowledge  that 
many  a  good  man  comes  to  grief,  many  a  bad  man 
flourishes  to  the  end.  And  yet,  with  this  mystery 
before  him,  he  has  gone  deep  enough  into  the  heart  of 
things  to  feel  the  beauty  and  the  compelling  power  of 
goodness  and  to  love  it  for  itself. 

In  marking  the  ways  in  which  the  trained  reader's 
power  to  enter  into  the  life  in  a  book  exceeds  the  power 
of  the  untrained,  we  mark  also  the  points  at  which  the 
latter  should  aim.  The  experienced  reader's  superiority, 
as  we  have  seen,  lies  mainly  in  his  power  of  seeing  facts 


INTRODUCTION  5 

in  relation;  in  seeing  life  as  a  unity  made  up  of  experi- 
ences that  find  their  meaning  in  their  relation  to  the 
laws  that  constitute  human  nature  and  create  its  social 
and  physical  environments.  It  is  thus  that  our  greater 
writers  present  life,  and  it  is  the  power  to  see  life  in 
this  way  that  the  student  of  literature  should  seek  to 
develop  in  himself. 

In  doing  this  he  has  hut  to  follow  his  author's  lead. 
'No  book^  no  writer,  can  possibly  present  more  than  a 
fraction  of  human  life.  Life  is  too  complex,  too  over- 
whelming to  be  otherwise  presented.  But  in  his  out- 
look upon  life,  in  his  study  of  a  thousand  varying  phe- 
nomena, an  author  is  arrested  and  fascinated  by  the 
recurrence  of  something  that  he  recognizes  as  the  same 
in  each,  a  something,  therefore,  which  he  traces  to  the 
underlying,  persisting,  essential  nature  of  man.  It  thus 
acquires  the  significance  of  a  truth  of  human  life,  and 
may  be  used  as  the  motive  of  essay,  sermon,  poem,  novel, 
or  play.  If  the  author  is  essayist  or  preacher,  he  may, 
if  he  wdll,  present  his  truth  in  the  abstract;  if  he  is 
novelist  or  playwright,  he  must  present  it  as  he  found 
it,  embodied  in  real,  individual  men  and  women  mov- 
ing about  on  solid  earth  in  an  enviranment  of  men  and 
women  and  other  natural  things.  The  novelist,  that 
is,  to  present  his  theme,  must  create  characters  whose 
lives  shall  reveal  it  to  us,  and  place  them  in  such  cir- 
cumstances and  bring  such  influences  to  bear  upon  them 
that  the  common  human  instincts  in  them  shall  natu- 
rally behave  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  the  truth  he  is 
bent  on  telling  manifest.  If,  then,  characters  and  en- 
vironment are  created  with  this  in  view,  everything  in 
a  well-conceived  and  well-wrought-out  novel  becomes 
significant.    The  physical  setting  of  the  story  is  neces- 


6  SILAS  MARNER 

sary  to  give  solidity  to  the  men  and  women  in  it;  and 
the  very  look  of  earth  and  sky  are  subtly  associated  with 
their  spiritual  moods.  The  social  setting,  also,  the 
community  life  out  of  which  the  chief  characters  spring 
or  in  the  midst  of  which  they  lead  their  lives,  is  neces- 
sary to  give  the  chief  characters  a  solid  human  reality, 
and  often  to  create  the  complications  and  entangle- 
ments through  which  the  theme  is  worked  out.  The 
leading  characters  themselves,  whose  lives  are  made  the 
center  of  interest  because  they  embody  the  human 
truth  with  which  the  author  is  most  concerned,  neces- 
sarily embody  far  more  than  this  single  truth,  else  the 
presentation  of  human  hfe  would  fade  into  mere  alle- 
gory. They  must  at  least  suggest  the  complexity  and  the 
fullness  of  life  that  the  central  truth  itself  may  gain  sig- 
nificance by  being  seen  in  its  relations.  Minor  themes, 
therefore,  are  properly  associated  with  the  main  theme 
in  such  wise  that  in  the  total  impression  the  latter  re- 
mains clearly  the  most  important.  Finally,  through 
these  complex  characters  thus  conceived  and  thus  placed 
in  their  environment,  the  author  presents  to  us  his 
theme  in  a  story,  every  event  in  which  gains  its  signifi- 
cance by  its  bearing,  direct  or  indirect,  on  the  central 
theme. 

Even  if  the  author  proceed  otherwise,  the  result, 
as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  is  the  same.  Even  if  he  see 
his  story — that  is,  the  series  of  events — first,  he  must 
nevertheless  make  the  story  interesting  and  reasonable 
to  us  by  fitting  its  events  into  the  lives  of  rationally 
conceived  characters;  he  must  make  them  spring  from 
the  laws  that  govern  human  action;  he  must  make 
them  occur  in  a  world  that  exists  by  the  interaction 
of  laws. 


INTRODUCTION  7 

The  reader  who  accepts  this  view  of  the  conception 
and  evolution  of  a  novel  becomes  at  once  a  student. 
He  sees  the  novel  as  a  whole,  each  part  involved  in 
every  other  part,  and  each  contributing  an  element  of 
life  necessary  to  the  whole.  Even  in  the  beginning  he 
keeps  the  future  course  and  end  of  the  action  in  view, 
and  learns  to  see  in  the  characters  and  conditions  as  first 
presented  possibilities  of  diverse  future  development. 
He  learns  to  isolate  the  facts  that  are  vital  to  the  under- 
standing of  all  that  follows;  to  detect  in  each  the  promise 
of  the  future  in  germ;  and  again  to  combine  them  into 
the  present  as  the  author  creates  it,  with  its  conflicting 
prophecies,  its  problematic  foreshadowings  of  what  is  to 
be.  Later,  also,  when  conditions  change  in  the  book- 
world,  when  new  characters  are  introduced  and  new 
forces  are  set  at  work,  he  proceeds  in  the  same  way> 
He  studies  the  new  with  the  old  constantly  in  mind. 
In  any  given  character,  for  instance,  he  notes  what  the 
new  conditions  appeal  to,  what  motives  they  quicken, 
what  impulses  they  chill.  He  seeks  to  discover  what  it 
is  in  the  man's  character,  as  thus  far  developed,  that 
makes  him  act  as  he  does  at  a  new  juncture,  and  what 
his  present  action  is  preparing  for  his  future.  He 
observes  what  tendencies,  widely  different  in  nature  as 
first  perceived,  have  here  met  at  a  common  point  and 
merged  in  a  single  stream,  and  he  follows  the  stream  in 
its  course.  And,  finally,  when  the  forces  active  in  the 
lives  of  the  characters  have  worked  out  the  natural  con- 
clusion, the  student  recalls  once  more  the  process. 
Viewed  in  the  light  reflected  back  upon  it  from  the  con- 
clusion every  point  acquires  fuller  significance.  Nor 
is  this  enlargement  of  meaning  confined  to  the  life  in 
the  book-world  alone.     Insensibly  life  itself  has  grown 


8  SILAS  MARNER 

larger  to  the  student  of  the  book.  He  takes  back  into 
it  an  augmented  interest,  a  more  intelligent  curiosity, 
;and  something  more  of  power  not  merely  to  read  books 
with  pleasure  and  understanding,  but  to  meet  life  itself 
intelligently. 

We  may  say  that  this  is  the  highest  end  not  merely 
of  the  reading  of  fiction,  but  of  all  intelligent  reading 
of  literature  of  any  sort.  It  is  just  as  truly  the  guerdon 
of  him  who  reads  The  Daffodils,  The  Ancient  Mariner, 
Julius  Ccesar,  Self -Reliance,  or  On  Conciliation  with 
America,  as  of  him  who  reads  Silas  Marner  or  Henry 
Esmond.  The  student  who  has  wandered  lonely  as  a 
cloud  with  the  poet,  and  come  upon  the  daffodils  and 
caught  the  spirit  of  that  jocund  company,  carries  away 
with  him  not  only  the  joy  of  the  verse,  but  senses  made 
more  responsive  to  the  beauty  of  the  world,  an  increased 
activity  of  feeling.  We  turn  from  The  Ancient  Mariner 
as  from  the  revelation  of  a  world  of  sweeter  melodies, 
of  diviner  harmonies,  of  more  subtle  and  mysterious 
relationships — and  behold,  we  find  it  again  in  the  world 
we  have  known  all  our  lives.  We  make  our  own  the  fair- 
ness of  statement,  the  persuasive  massing  of  facts,  the 
common  sense,  and  the  love  of  justice  in  Burke^s  great 
speech,  and  somehow  we  find  ourselves  looking  upon 
public  questions  in  a  new  light,  judging  public  policies 
in  a  new  spirit.  From  all  these  studies  we  return  with 
increased  power  to  read  intelligently,  and  just  as  truly 
with  increased  power  to  live  intelligently.  The  ulti- 
mate end  of  all  teaching  of  literature,  then,  seems  to  be 
the  same,  and  is  an  immediate  consequence  of  the  nature 
of  literature. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  means  by  which  the  end  is  to 
be  accomplished  must  vary  with  the  department  of  lit- 


INTRODUCTION  9 

erature.  In  dealing  with  literature  we  are  dealing  with 
life,  not  directly,  but  through  the  medium  of  an  art. 
Our  method,  therefore,  must  be  determined  with  an  eye 
to  the  conditions  created  for  us  by  the  art.  These  vary 
so  widely  in  the  several  departments  of  literature  that 
he  would  be  foolish  indeed  who  should  endeavor  to  apply 
one  method  rigidly  in  all.  As  we  pass  from  lyric  poetry 
to  the  epic,  the  drama,  the  novel,  the  essay,  the  speech, 
we  nowhere  fail  to  be  occupied  with  human  life  and 
its  interests;  yet  we  can  not  reach  the  emotional  secret 
of  the  lyric  by  the  same  logical  analysis  that  opens  the 
treasures  of  the  speech,  nor  will  the  means  to  be  em- 
ployed in  either  of  these  cases  serve  us  with  the  novel. 
The  cases  of  the  novel  and  the  drama  are  more  nearly 
alike,  and  a  comparison  of  the  two  is  helpful. 

Even  here  we  are  far  from  identity  of  conditions. 
Both  the  novel  and  the  drama  deal  with  men  and 
women  acting.  But  the  liberty  accorded  the  novelist 
to  appear  in  his  own  person  and  tell  us  how  his  charac- 
ters act,  what  makes  them  act  so,  and  what  he  thinks  of 
them  for  it,  affects  both  the  form  of  his  work  and,  to 
some  extent,  our  study  of  it.  The  complete  suppression 
of  the  dramatist,  the  strict  limitations  of  length  within 
which  he  must  work,  create  conditions  that  make  the 
task  of  his  reader  in  some  respects  more  difficult  and  in 
some  respects  easier  than  that  of  the  novel  reader.  But 
in  the  most  fundamental  points  the  drama  and  the  novel 
present  similar  problems.  In  each  we  have  a  central 
character  or  group  of  characters,  involved  in  a  plot,  an 
action,  that  carries  the  theme.  In  each  we  ordinarily 
have  subordinate  characters  either  instruments  in  de- 
veloping the  main  action  or  principals  or  subordinates 
in  a  second  plot,  itself  subsidiary  to  the  main  action. 


10  SILAS  MARNER 

In  the  drama  we  have  the  action  developed  in  five  acts 
with  a  varying  number  of  scenes;  in  the  novel  the  action 
runs  through  an  indefinite  number  of  chapters.  Here 
is  more  difference  in  seeming  than  in  reality.  The 
novelist  just  as  much  as  the  dramatist  must  introduce 
his  personages^  create  the  situation  that  supplies  them: 
with  motives  for  various  choices;  show  us  their  choice 
and  make  it  explicable  by  their  characteristics;  start  the 
consequent  action  into  motion;  complicate  it  with  other 
actions  which  shall  constantly  renew  the  opportunity 
for  choice;  and  finally  bring  it  to  a  conclusion  that 
shall  both  justify  itself  to  our  reason  as  a  natural  effect 
of  the  causes  that  produce  it,  and  leave  us  in  a  deeper 
harmony  with  universal  law.  /The  novelist  may,  if 
he  will,  linger  over  the  introduction  of  his  charac- 
ters, and  he  may  move  more  slowly  toward  his  goal; 
yet  the  limitations  of  time  and  space  and  unity  of  ac- 
tion are  upon  him  as  well  as  upon  the  dramatist.  Even 
he  can  not  give  a  complete  panorama  of  the  lives  he 
has  created.  Out  of  the  myriad  situations  and  events 
that  he  might  present,  he  must  select  such  as  are  most 
significant  in  the  light  of  his  theme;  and,  rigidly  sup- 
pressing everything  else,  he  must  so  combine  and  order 
these  that  their  significance  shall  be  unmistakable.  In 
the  drama  we  study  each  act,  each  scene,  and  every 
speech  of  every  character,  to  make  it  yield  its  contribu- 
tion to  the  main  action.  So,  too,  in  the  novel.  •  We 
study  the  chapters  as  marking  stages  in  the  action,  to 
discover  what  were  to  the  author  the  critical  conditions^ 
the  determining  influences,  and  the  decisive  moments 
in  the  lives  he  is  narrating.  We  analyze  the  dialogue  to 
make  acquaintance  with  the  characters  and  to  pene- 
trate the  secret  of  their  interaction.    And  we  note  at- 


•W 


INTRODUCTION  H 

tentively  every  word  the  author  drops  by  way  of  eom- 
ment  upon  his  characters  and  explanation  of  their  feel- 
ings and  conduct. 

This  close  study  of  the  novel,  following  the  lines  of 
its  structure  and  accepting  the  conditions  imposed  upon 
both  writer  and  reader  by  the  very  nature  of  the  art, 
achieves  two  results  of  more  or  less  profit  to  the  student. 
The  first,  and  the  more  important,  result  is  that  already 
pointed  out.  It  lies  in  the  enlargement  of  life  that 
€omes  to  the  student  through  living  so  intimately  and 
intelligently  in  the  lives  of  others.  The  second  result, 
though  distinctly  inferior  to  this,  is  of  undoubted  value 
«ven  to  the  general  reader,  while  to  the  special  student 
of  literature  it  is  indispensable — namely,  the  quickening 
and  strengthening  of  the  critical  instinct  and  the  de- 
velopment of  the  literary  judgment.  It  is  indeed  only 
through  the  reading  of  many  authors  and  books, 
through  the  spontaneous  appropriation  and  assimila- 
tion of  the  best  they  have  to  give  both  in  substance 
and  in  manner,  and  later  through  a  conscious  and  in- 
telligent comparison  of  them,  that  anything  like  ca- 
tholicity of  taste  and  soundness  of  judgment  is  devel- 
oped. No  class  study  of  two  or  three  or  half  a  dozen 
books  can  take  the  place  of  this  gradual  and  half- 
unconscious  growth.  But  such  study  as  is  here  urged 
can  at  any  rate  suggest  that  literature  of  every  sort 
is  an  art,  with  problems  of  its  own  arising  out  of  the 
subject  it  handles,  the  audience  it  addresses,  and  the 
medium  of  expression  it  employs.  Such  study  may  even 
beget  a  curiosity  to  know  how  different  authors  have 
solved  or  attacked  these  problems,  and  it  may  give 
something  like  intelligent  direction  to  this  curiosity. 
It  certainly  enables  the  student  more  easily  to  enter 


12  SILAS  MARNER 

into  every  new  book  he  takes  up,  and  to  make  his  own 
whatever  truth  and  beauty  of  form  and  substance  it 
may  have. 

\  George  Eliot's  Aim  and  Method 

That  George  Eliot  was  not  out  of  sympathy  with 
the  theory  of  fiction  and  its  spiritual  uses  here  pre- 
sented can  hardly  be  questioned  by  her  readers.  She 
took  her  work  seriously,  looked  upon  the  writing  of 
fiction  as  an  art,  and  strove  almost  religiously  to  be 
true  to  the  artist's  function.  She  held  herself  to  be 
a  teacher;  but  not  after  the  fashion  of  the  preacher 
or  the  fabulist,  with  a  set  lesson  to  inculcate  by  every 
work.  Hers  was  a  more  difficult  and  more  delicate  task 
— to  teach  high  lessons  through  noble  joys.  She  sought 
to  ennoble  the  emotions  by  rousing  them  to  a  purify- 
ing activity.  She  sought  to  extend  and  quicken  our 
sympathies  by  helping  us  to  find  ourselves  in  lives  ap- 
parently most  unlike  our  own.  She  sought  to  give 
'*  nobler  values  to  familiar  ties,  to  broaden  the  horizon 
and  lift  the  heavens  that  shut  us  in.  And  all  this  she 
sought  to  do,  not  by  creating  an  impossible  world,  but 
by  showing  us  this  world  as  it  is,  or  as  she  saw  it;  by 
interesting  us  in  common  men  and  women;  by  giv- 
ing us  the  aesthetic  joy — ^which  is  also  moral — of 
escape  from  the  narrow  limits  of  our  own  lives  into 
the  freedom  of  the  artist's  incarnation  in  a  hundred 
lives. 

Her  own  words  assure  us  of  her  feeling  about  her 
work,  her  aim,  and  her  method.  Writing  *  to  M.  D' Al- 
bert she  says,  "  My  books  are  deeply  serious  things  to 

*  October  18,  1859.    Life,  M,  105. 


INTRODUCTION  13 

me^  and  come  out  of  all  the  painful  discipline,  all  the 
most  hardly  learnt  lessons  of  my  past  life." 

To  John  Blackwood,  her  first  publisher,  she  writes,* 
^'  It  is  a  comfort  to  me  to  read  any  criticism  which  rec- 
ognizes the  high  responsibilities  of  literature  that  un- 
dertakes to  represent  life.  The  ordinary  tone  about 
art  is  that  the  artist  may  do  what  he  will,  provided  he 
pleases  the  public." 

She  assures  her  friend  Mrs.  Peter  Taylor  that  she 
looks  upon  her  function  as  "  that  of  the  aesthetic,  not 
doctrinal  teacher — the  rousing  of  the  nobler  emotions, 
which  make  mankind  desire  the  social  right,  not  the 
prescribing  of  special  measures."  f  To  the  same  effect 
she  writes  to  Charles  Bray.J  ^^  If  art  does  not  enlarge 
men's  sympathies,  it  does  nothing  morally.  .  .  .  The 
only  effect  I  ardently  long  to  produce  by  my  writings 
is,  that  those  who  read  them  should  be  better  able  to 
imagine  and  to  feel  the  pains  and  the  joys  of  those 
who  differ  from  themselves  in  everything  but  the  broad 
fact  of  being  struggling,  erring  human  creatures." 

A  letter*  to  Frederic  Harrison  emphasizes  her  ad- 
herence to  the  aesthetic  aim,  and  gives  us  a  glimpse 
of  her  method — "  That  is  a  tremendously  difficult  prob- 
lem w^hich  you  have  laid  before  me;  and  I  think  you 
see  its  difficulties,  though  they  can  hardly  press  upon 
you  as  they  do  on  me,  who  have  gone  through  again 
and  again  the  severe  effort  of  trying  to  make  certain 
ideas  thoroughly  incarnate,  as  if  they  had  revealed 
themselves  to  me  first  in  the  flesh  and  not  in  the  spirit. 

*  March  30,  1861.    Life,  ii,  230. 
+  July  18,  1878.     Life,  iii,  268. 
X  July  5,  1859.    Life,  ii.  88. 
«  August  15,  1866.    Life,  ii,  348. 


14  SILAS  MARKER 

I  think  aesthetic  teaching  is  the  highest  of  all  teaching, 
because  it  deals  with  life  in  its  highest  complexity. 
But  if  it  ceases  to  be  purely  aesthetic — if  it  lapses  any- 
where from  the  picture  to  the  diagram — it  becomes  the 
most  offensive  of  all  teaching/^ 

:  Her  method  is  still  further  unfolded  to  us  in  a  let- 
ter* to  K.  H.  Hutton,  concerning  a  criticism  on 
Romola — "  Perhaps  even  a  judge  so  discerning  as  your- 
self could  not  infer  from  the  imperfect  result  how 
strict  a  self-control  and  selection  were  exercised  in  the 
presentation  of  details.  I  believe  there  is  scarcely  a 
phrase,  an  incident,  an  allusion,  that  did  not  gather  its 
value  to  me  from  its  supposed  subservience  to  my  main 
artistic  objects.  ...  It  is  the  habit  of  my  imagina- 
tion to  strive  after  as  full  a  vision  of  the  medium  in 
which  a  character  moves  as  of  the  character  itself.  The 
psychological  causes  which  prompted  me  to  give  such 
details  of  Florentine  life  and  history  as  I  have  given^ 
are  precisely  the  same  as  those  which  determined  me 
in  giving  the  details  of  English  village  life  in  Silas 
Marner,  or  the  Dodson  life,  out  of  which  were  devel- 
oped the  destinies  of  poor  Tom  and  Maggie. "" 

This  letter  to  Mr.  Hutton  is  evidence  also  that  her 
characters  were  not  mere  constructions,  but  real  cre- 
ations. She  evidently  conceived  them  in  their  environ- 
ment, and  felt  that  they  themselves  within  that  environ- 
ment worked  oat  their  own  fates.  When  Mr.  Black- 
wood questioned  something  in  the  conduct  ascribed  to 
Caterina  in  Mr.  GilfiVs  Love  Story,  she  wrote, f  "But 
I  am  unable  to  alter  anything  in  the  delineation  or 

*  August  8,  1863.    Life,  ii,  285. 
.  t  February  18,  1857.    Life,  i,  326. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

development  of  character,  as  my  stories  always  grow 
out  of  my  psychological  conception  of  the  dramatis 
personcB.  .  .  .  My  artistic  bent  is  directed  not  at  all  to 
the  presentation  of  eminently  irreproachable  charac- 
ters, but  to  the  presentation  of  mixed  human  beings 
in  such  a  way  as  to  call  forth  tolerant  judgment,  pity, 
and  sympathy.  And  I  can  not  stir  a  step  aside  from 
what  I  feel  to  be  true  in  character.  If  anything  strikes 
you  as  untrue  to  human  nature  in  my  delineations,  I 
shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will  point  it  out  to  me,  that 
I  may  reconsider  the  matter.  But,  alas!  inconsisten- 
cies and  weaknesses  are  not  untrue.^^ 

And  again  her  artistic  desire  for  unity  and  com- 
pleteness appears  in  a  later  letter  *  to  the  same  friend — 
^*  I  don't  see  how  I  can  leave  anything  out,  because  I 
hope  there  is  nothing  that  will  be  seen  to  be  irrelevant 
to  my  design.'^ 

Silas  Makxer 

It  is  possible  that  George  Eliot's  desire  for  fullness 
of  treatment,  her  anxiety  to  give  a  solid  reality  to  her 
characters  by  relating  them  in  a  thousand  ways  to  the 
life  of  a  whole  community,  led  her  at  times  to  err 
on  the  side  of  excess.  It  is  certain  that  many  of  her 
critics  charge  her  with  such  error  in  the  first  part  of 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  in  Romola,  in  Middlemarch,  and 
in  Daniel  Deronda;  and  she  herself  felt  a  lack  of  pro- 
portion in  the  handling  of  the  "  Dodson  life  "  in  the 
first  named.  But  no  one  finds  similar  fault  with  Silas 
Marner.  Of  all  her  books  this  is  recognized  as  the 
miost  artistic.     This  does  not  necessarily  imply  that  it 

*  July  24,  1871.    Life,  iii,  107. 


16  SILAS  MARNER 

is  the  one  which  we  chng  to  most.  We  may  forgive 
many  a  sin  against  art  for  the  sake  of  the  intense  hu- 
manness  of  Maggie  Tulliver  and  Tom,  of  Tito,  of 
Dorothea  and  Lydgate  and  Mr.  Farebrother  and  the 
Garths  and  Mr.  Bulstrode,  of  Gwendolen  and  Grand- 
court,  and  little  Jacob  and  the  whole  Cohen  family. 
The  nature  of  Maggie^s  struggle,  or  Eomola's,  or 
Gwendolen's,  or  Dorothea's,  and  the  greater  range  of 
life  involved  in  telling  their  stories  may  make  different 
readers  hold  this  or  that  one  of  her  books  dearest. 
But  there  is  general  agreement  as  to  the  peculiar  merits 
of  Silas  Marner."^ 

The  theme  of  this  story  is,  of  course,  the  life  of  Silas 
himself.  It  is  the  story  of  his  affection,  his  trustful- 
ness, his  ignorance;  of  his  loss  of  faith  in  God  and  man 
through  the  treachery  of  a  false  friend  and  the  igno- 
rance and  narrowness  of  a  whole  community;  of  the 
dwindling  of  his  life  when  it  is  no  longer  fed  from 
the  sources  of  human  affection  and  fellowship  and  the 
worship  of  an  Unseen  Goodness;  and  of  its  growth  again, 
of  his  restoration  to  life  through  the  coming  of  the 
little  child  whose  helplessness  and  love  and  expand- 
ing life  bring  him  once  more  into  natural  relations  with 
the  world  about  him. 

This  is  the  story  for  which  the  book  is  written,  and 
the  clearness  and  beauty  with  which  this  central  theme 
is  conceived  and  the  care  with  which  everything  in  the 
book  is  made  to  contribute  to  it,  give  the  book  much  of 
its  artistic  perfection.    Yet  it  would  lose  much  even  of 

*  Of  Silas  Marner  George  Eliot  wrote  to  John  Blackwood, 
"  It  sets— or  is  intended  to  set — in  a  strong  light  the  remedial 
influences  of  pure,  natural  human  relations." 


INTRODUCTION  17 

its  artistic  value  and  interest  if  the  story  with  which 
it  is  complicated  were  not  also  of  a  sort  to  appeal 
strongly  to  our  mingled  human  nature,  conscious  of 
good  impulses  and  high  ideals,  and  conscious  too  of 
strange  weakness  and  failure;  and  it  would  lose  fur- 
ther if  the  complication  were  not  skillfully  managed. 
'No  perfection  of  form  makes  a  lasting  work  unless 
it  is  the  expression  of  truth  of  substance.  But  it  is  also 
certain  that  truth  of  substance  alone  hardly  avails  to 
give  permanent  life.  In  Silas  Mdrner,  fortunately,  we 
have  a  fairly  organic  union  of  truth  and  beauty  of 
content  with  truth  and  beauty  of  form.  The  story  of 
Silas  appeals  to  universal  human  instincts,  to  our 
need  of  human  fellowship,  to  our  sense  of  dependence 
on  the  common  ties  of  friend  and  kindred,  to  our  need 
.of  loving  and  being  loved.  The  story  of  Godfrey  Cass, 
too,  takes  hold  of  us  through  our  sympathy  with  his 
love  for  K'ancy,  and  with  all  the  impulses  of  his  nature 
that  make  her  stand  to  him  for  a  vision  of  brightness 
and  purity  and  peace;  and,  alas!  it  takes  hold  of  us 
also  through  our  shrinking  recognition  of  our  own 
frailties;  through  our  own  aversion  to  the  disagreeable 
present;  our  own  difficulty  in  keeping  a  clear  vision 
of  our  ideals;  and,  it  may  be,  our  inner  sense  that 
neither  the  madness  of  folly  that  led  Godfrey  into 
the  intrigue  and  secret  marriage  with  poor  Molly,  nor 
the  cowardice  that  made  him  refuse  to  face  his  act 
and  take  the  consequences,  is  wholly  foreign  to  our  na- 
tures. But  these  two  stories  of  Silas  and  Godfrey  de- 
rive their  power  over  our  feelings  and  reflections  no 
more  from  their  truth  to  life  than  from  the  beauty  of 
their  handling.  Each  is  conceived  as  a  whole;  each  may 
be  looked  at  by  itself,  and  each  so  viewed  has  interest; 


18  SILAS  MARNER 

but  the  way  in  which  the  author  has  bound  them  to- 
gether so  that  each  shall  re-enforce  the  other  while 
still  leaving  the  story  of  Silas  dominant,  gives  immeas- 
urably more  attractiveness  and  strength  to  the  whole 
story  than  either  of  its  elements  could  possibly  have. 
In  this  union  we  feel  that  nothing  is  strained.  The 
weakness  and  failure  of  one  nature  are  everywhere  in 
the  world  making  demand  upon  other  natures  for 
strength,  and  creating  opportunities  in  which  other  na- 
tures find  the  fulfillment  of  their  needs.  But  in  the 
presentation  of  the  ways  in  which  these  two  imperfect 
and  faulty  lives  crossed  each  other,  the  author  gives  a 
deeper  reality  and  impressiveness  to  each. 

Furthermore,  the  sympathy  with  which  the  story  is 
told  is  as  artistic  as  it  is  true.  It  is  given  not  only 
to  Silas  and  Godfrey,  but  to  Eppie  and  I^ancy  and 
Dolly  Winthrop  and  Aaron;  to  all  the  homely  life  oi 
the  village;  to  the  dullest  of  the  famous  group  at  the 
Eainbow;  to  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey  and  to  the 
conciliatory  host.  It  is  broad  enough  to  include  even 
"  the  pups  as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing,^^and  the  red- 
headed calf  that  looks  with  mild  surprise  at  the  run- 
away Eppie.  In  short,  it  becomes  the  artistic  atmos- 
phere of  the  book,  the  medium  through  which  we  look 
at  all  its  life.  Like  the  air  of  Indian  summer,  it  in- 
vests all  the  landscape  with  charm. 

If  now  to  the  truth  of  characterization,  the  propor- 
tion and  harmony  of  construction,  and  the  beauty  of 
tone  we  have  observed,  we  add  the  prevailing  simplicity 
and  beauty  of  the  diction  when  the  author  is  speak- 
ing in  her  own  person  and  its  dramatic  fitness  else- 
where, we  have  outlined  our  justification  of  the  gen- 
eral verdict  as  to  the  artistic  nature  of  Silas  Marner, 


INTRODUCTION  19 

Life  of  George  Eliot 

Mary  Ann  Evans  was  born  November  22,  1819, 
at  South  Farm,  Arbury  Park,  near  Nuneaton,  War- 
wickshire, England.  She  was  the  youngest  child  of 
Kobert  Evans  and  his  second  wife,  Christiana  Pearson. 
In  March,  1820,  the  family  removed  to  Griff  House, 
also  on  the  Arbury  estate,  where  Mary  Ann,  known  to 
all  her  readers  as  George  Eliot,  "  spent  the  first  twenty- 
one  years  of  her  life.^^  Her  series  of  sonnets,  Bi'otlier 
and  Sister,  shows  how  her  first  five  years  were  passed. 
At  five  years  old  she  was  sent  to  Miss  Lathom's  school 
at  Attleboro,  where  with  her  sister  she  remained  as 
a  boarder  for  three  or  four  years.  She  was  then  trans- 
ferred to  Miss  Wallington's  school  at  Nuneaton,  where 
she  made  an  intimate  friend  of  the  chief  governess. 
Miss  Lewis,  and  under  her  influence  acquired  an  evan- 
gelical cast  of  thought  and  feeling.  In  her  thirteenth 
year  she  was  transferred  to  Miss  Franklin's  school  at 
Coventry.  Here  she  remained  till  Christmas,  1835. 
Her  mother  died  in  the  following  summer,  and,  her 
sister  Christiana  soon  marrying,  George  Eliot  became 
the  head  of  her  father's  household.  She  was  a  prac- 
tical housewife,  skilled  in  all  the  duties  of  the  calling, 
as  one  might  almost  guess  from  the  allusions  in  her 
books.  She  nevertheless  continued  her  studies  in 
Italian,  German,  and  music;  and  her  letters  show  that 
she  was  a  persistent  and  serious  reader  along  many 
lines,  with  a  special  liking  for  theological  and  religious 
works.  Her  love  of  Wordsworth,  henceforward  so 
marked,,  was  established  at  this  time. 

In  1841  her  brother  Isaac,  now  married,  succeeded 
to  a  portion  of  his  father's  business  as  agent  for  the 


20  SILAS  MARNER 

Arbury  estate,  and  settled  at  Griff  House.  Mr.  Eobert 
Evans  and  his  daughter  removed  to  a  house  on  the 
Foleshill  Eoad,  near  Coventry.  Here  they  lived  till  Mr. 
Evans's  death  in  1849,  when  the  home  life  of  George 
Eliot  was  broken  up.  At  Foleshill  she  was  thrown 
among  people  of  much  greater  culture  and  wider  inter- 
ests than  she  had  known  hitherto.  Her  most  important 
friendships  formed  here  were  with  the  family  of  Mr. 
Charles  Bray  and  the  Hennells.  Her  studies  took  a 
broader  range,  and  included  Greek  and  Latin  under 
masters,  and  Hebrew,  which  she  learned  without  a 
master  and  read  with  delight  as  long  as  she  lived.  Her 
friends  had  some  influence  in  hastening  a  change  in 
her  religious  views,  and  were  instrumental  in  her  un- 
dertaking the  translation  of  Strauss's  Life  of  Jesus, 
Through  the  Brays  also  she  met  various  famous  Eng- 
lishmen and  Americans.  Her  letters  show  her  ardent 
interest  in  moral,  religious,  and  social  problems. 

After  her  father's  death  in  1849  her  friends  per- 
suaded George  Eliot  to  seek  in  travel  the  strength 
and  courage  that  seemed  sapped  by  grief.  She  spent 
several  months  at  Geneva,  mostly  in  the  family  of  M. 
and  Mme.  D' Albert,  with  whom  she  formed  a  lifelong 
friendship.  M.  D' Albert  was  years  afterward  the 
French  translator  of  her  novels. 

She  returned  to  England  in  1850,  and,  after  spend- 
ing some  sixteen  months  with  her  friends  at  Coventry, 
finally  settled  in  London  as  assistant  editor  of  the 
Westmirister  Revieiv.  This  position  she  resigned  two 
or  three  years  later,  but  except  for  intervals  of  foreign 
travel  and  sojourns  in  the  country,  she  spent  the  rest 
of  her  life  in  London.  Here,  naturally,  she  met  many 
interesting  people.    Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  is  perhaps  to 


INTRODUCTION  21 

be  counted  first  among  her  friends.  Through  him  also 
she  was  brought  into  close  relations  with  George  Henry 
Lewes,  with  whom,  in  July,  1854,  she  joined  fortunes 
for  life  in  a  union  which,  though  lacking  the  sanction 
of  the  State,  was  in  all  else  a  marriage  of  the  rarer 
and  nobler  sort. 

It  was  in  great  measure  due  to  Mr.  Lewes  that 
George  Eliot  became  a  novelist.  She  had  already  an 
established  repute  as  translator,  editor,  and  reviewer, 
but  his  encouragement  and  urging  first  made  her  try 
her  hand  at  story-telling.  Her  first  story,  Tlie  Sad 
Fortunes  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  was  accepted  by 
John  Blackwood,  ISTovember  12,  1856,  and  published 
anonymously  in  Blackwood^s  Magazine,  not  even  Mr. 
Blackwood  himself  knowing  who  the  new  author  was. 
It  was  followed  by  Mr.  GilfiVs  Love  Story,  and  Janef» 
Repentance,  and  then  the  three  were  issued  in  two 
volumes  under  the  title.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  The 
name  George  Eliot  was  first  assumed  in  a  letter  to  John 
Blackwood,  February  4,  1857.  This  first  book  estab- 
lished George  Eliot's  position  among  the  more  dis- 
criminating readers,  and  was  successful  with  the  gen- 
eral pubUc.  But  her  mastery  of  the  public  dates  from 
Adam  Bede,  published  February  1,  1859.  From  this 
time  she  ranked  with  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  and  after 
their  deaths  she  had  no  rivals  in  public  favor  among 
the  living. 

The  following  list  includes  all  her  books  from  the 
beginning  of  her  career  as  novelist,  together  with  the 
dates  of  their  publication  in  book  form. 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  January,  1858. 

Adam  Bede,  February  1,  1859. 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  April  4,  1860. 


22  SILAS  MARNER 

Silas  Marner,  March,  1861. 

JRomola,  1863. 

Felix  Holt,  1866, 

The  Spanish  Gypsy  (dramatic  poem),  1868. 

Middlemarch,  1871-2. 

The  Legend  of  Jubal,  and  other  poems,  May,  1874. 

Daniel  Deronda,  1876. 

The  Impressions  of  Theophrastus  Such,  1879. 

As  the  above  list  shows,  George  Eliot's  life  was  pro- 
ductive to  the  last.  It  was,  moreover,  from  beginning 
to  end  the  life  of  a  student.  Those  who  are  curious 
as  to  the  range  and  seriousness  of  her  studies  may  get 
some  satisfaction  by  turning  to  the  LifCy  by  Mr.  Cross, 
vol.  i,  pp.  45,  46,  149,  150,  282,  338,  359;  vol.  ii,  pp.  56, 
247,  248,  254,  324,  325;  vol.  iii,  pp.  16,  21,  45,  60,  74, 
75,  77,  93,  97,  133,  341,  342,  353.  But  the  lists  of 
books  here  given  as  read  by  her  fail  to  convey  such 
an  impression  as  is  received  from  the  allusions  in  her 
Letters  and  Journals  everywhere. 

Mr.  Lewes  died  in  1878.  In  May,  1880,  George 
Eliot  married  John  Walter  Cross,  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Lewes  as  well  as  of  herself.  On  the  fourth  of  Decem- 
ber, after  months  of  travel  on  the  Continent  and  in 
the  country,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cross  returned  to  London 
and  occupied  their  house  at  No.  4  Cheyne  Walk.  Here, 
on  December  22,  1880,  after  an  illness  of  a  few  days, 
George  Eliot  died. 

"  Her  body  rests  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  in  the  grave 
next  to  Mr.  Lewes.  In  sleet  and  snow,  on  a  bitter  day, 
the  29th  of  December,  very  many  whom  she  knew,  very 
many  whom  she  did  not  know,  pressed  to  her  grave- 
side with  tributes  of  tears  and  flowers. 

"  Her  spirit  joined  that  choir  invisible  ^  whose  music 
is  the  gladness  of  the  world.^ '' 


INTRODUCTION  23 

Biographical  and  Critical  Studies  of 
George  Eliot 

George  Eliofs  Life,  by  her  husband,  J.  W.  Cross.  (The  illus- 
trated cabinet  edition,  3  vols.,  contains  three  portraits  of  George 
Eliot,  a  portrait  of  her  father,  and  views  of  her  homes:  Griff 
House,  Foieshill,  The  Priory,  The  Heights,  and  No.  4  Cheyne  Walk. 
This  is  the  Life  always  referred  to  in  the  notes.) 

George  Eliofs  Life,  by  Frederic  Harrison.  The  Fortnightly 
Review,  March,  1885  (vol.  xliii  old  series,  xxxvii  new  series,  pp. 
309-322).     Eeprinted  in  Littell's  Living  Age,  vol.  165. 

George  Eliot,  by  Mathilde  Blind.    Famous  Women  Series. 
George  Eliot,  by  Oscar  Browning.     Great  Writer  Series. 

The  Life  of  George  Eliot,  by  John  Morley.  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine, February,  1885  (vol.  li,  pp.  241-256).  Repainted  in  Littell's 
Living  Age,  vol.  164. 

George  Eliot.  Blackwood's  Magazine,  February,  1881  (vol. 
cxxix,  pp.  255-268).    Bepririted  in  Littell's  Living  Age,  vol.  148. 

George  Eliot's  Life,  by  Henry  James.  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
May,  1885  (vol.  Iv,  pp.  668-678). 

George  Eliot,  by  R.  H.  Hutton.  The  Contemporary  Review, 
March,  1885  (vol.  xlvii,pp.  372-391).  Eeprinted  in  Littell's  Living 
Age,  vol.  165. 

George  Eliot,  by  Edith  Simcox.  The  Nineteenth  Century,  May, 
t881  (vol.  ix,  pp.  778-801).  Repi'inted  in  Littell's  Living  Age,  vol. 
149. 

George  Eliot,  by  F.  W.  H.  Myers.  The  Century  Magazine, 
November,  1881  (vol.  xxiii,  pp.  57-64). 

The  Portrait  of  George  Eliot,  The  Century  Magazine,  Novem- 
ber, 1881  (vol.  xxiii,  p.  47). 

George  Eliot,  by  C.  Kegan  Paul.  Harper's  Magazine,  May,  1881 
(vol.  Ixii,  pp.  912-923). 

George  Eliofs  Two  Marriages,  by  C.  G.  Ames. 

George  Eliofs  Country^  by  Rose  G.  Kingsley.  The  Century 
Magazine,  July,  1885  (vol.  xxx,  pp.  339-352). 

George  Eliot,  by  Edward  Dowden.  The  Contemporary  Re- 
view, August,  1872  (vol.  XX,  pp.  403-423).  Reprinted  in  Littell's 
Living  Age,  vol.  115. 

Modern  Guides  of  English  Thought  on  Matters  of  Faith,  by 
R.  H.  Hutton,  pp.  147-299. 


24  SILAS  MARNER 

George  Eliot :  A  critical  study  of  her  life,  vyritings^  and  phi- 
losophy, by  George  Willis  Cooke. 

The  English  Novel  and  the  Principles  of  its  Development ,  by 
Sidney  Lanier. 

Lectures  on  English  Literature,  by  Edmond  Scherer. 

George  Eliofs  Children,  by  Annie  Mattheson,  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  October,  1882  (vol.  xlvi,  pp.  488-497).  Reprinted  in 
Littell's  Living  Age,  vol.  155. 

Besides  these,  one  who  wishes  to  know  George  Eliot's  life 
should  consult  her  books.  From  several  of  them  we  get  glimpses, 
not  photographs,  of  her  early  home  life  and  surroundings.  Her 
mother  may  be  found,  in  part,  in  Mrs.  Poyser  in  Adam  Bade,  and 
in  Mrs.  Hackit  in  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  Her  father  certainly 
furnished  the  groundwork  of  character  to  both  Adam  Bede  and 
Caleb  Garth,  Middlemarch.  Seth  Bede  is  founded  on  "Uncle 
Samuel  Evans,"  and  the  germ  of  the  character  of  Dinah  Morris  is 
found  in  "  Aunt  Samuel."  The  poem  Brother  and  Sister  is  almost 
a  transcript  from  memory  of  the  author's  childhood;  and  the 
childhood  of  Mary  Ann  and  Isaac  Evans  supplied  also  much  of 
the  child  life  in  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.  The  story  of  the  early 
years  of  Maggie  Tulliver  is  doubtless  the  best  source  we  have  foi 
knowledge  of  the  inner  life  of  George  Eliot  in  her  own  earliei 
years.  The  Dodson  life,  too,  is  drawn  from  memories  and  impres- 
sions of  the  Pearsons,  Mrs.  Robert  Evans's  family.  The  towns  and 
churches  and  manors  in  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  are  memories  of 
Warwickshire ;  and  the  landscapes  in  the  Scenes  and  Adam  Bede 
and  Silas  Marner  and  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  are  landscapes^ 
familiar  to  George  Eliot's  childish  eyes,  and  dear  with  memories. 


m.k\ 


SILAS  MAENER 

THE    WEAVER    OF    RAVELOE 


PART    I 

CHAPTEE  I 

In  the  days  when  the  spinning  wheels  hummed  bus- 
ily in  the  farmhouses — and  even  great  ladies,  clothed  in 
silk  and  thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spinning-wheels 
of  polished  oak — there  might  be  seen,  in  districts  far 
away  among  the  lanes,  or  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  5 
hills,  certain  pallid  undersized  men,  who,  by  the  side 
of  the  brawny  country  folk,  looked  like  the  remnants 
of  a  disinherited  race.  The  shepherd's  dog  barked 
fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien-looking  men  appeared 
on  the  upland,  dark  against  the  early  winter  sunset;  10 
for  what  dog  likes  a  figure  bent  under  a  heavy  bag? — 
and  these  pale  men  rarely  stirred  abroad  without  that 
mysterious  burden.  The  shepherd  himself,  though  he 
had  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  bag  held  nothing 
but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rolls  of  strong  linen  15 
spun  from  that  thread,  was  not  quite  sure  that  this  trade 
of  weaving,  indispensable  though  it  was,  could  be  car- 
ried on  entirely  without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In 
that  far-off  time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every 
person  or  thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  inter-  20 
mittent  and  occasional  merely,  like  the  visits  of  the 
peddler  or  the  knife-grinder.     No  one  knew  where  wan- 

25 


26  SILAS  MARKER 

dering  men  had  their  homes  or  their  origin;  and  how 
was  a  man  to  be  explained  unless  you  at  least  knew 
somebody  who  knew  his  father  and  mother?  To  the 
peasants  of  old  times,  the  world  outside  their  own  direct 

5  experience  was  a  region  of  vagueness  and  mystery:  to 
their  untraveled  thought  a  state  of  wandering  was  a 
conception  as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the  swallows 
that  came  back  with  the  spring;  and  even  a  settler,  if 
he    came   from    distant   parts,   hardly   ever   ceased    to 

10  be  viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which  would 
have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long  course  of  inoffen- 
sive conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the  commission 
of  a  crime;  especially  if  he  had  any  reputation  for 
knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in  handicraft.    All  clev- 

15  erness,  whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that  difficult  instru- 
ment the  tongue,  or  in  some  other  art  unfamiliar  to 
villagers,  was  in  itself  suspicious:  honest  folk,  born  and 
bred  in  a  visible  manner,  were  mostly  not  overwise  or 
clever — at  least,  not  beyond  such  a  matter  as  knowing 

20  the  signs  of  the  weather;  and  the  process  by  which  ra- 
pidity and  dexterity  of  any  kind  were  acquired  was  so 
wholly  hidden  that  they  partook  of  the  nature  of  con- 
juring. In  this  way  it  came  to  pass  that  those  scattered 
linen  weavers — emigrants  from  the  town  into  the  coun- 

25  try — were  to  the  last  regarded  as  aliens  by  their  rustic 
neighbors,  and  usually  contracted  the  eccentric  habits 
which  belong  to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the   early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen 
weaver,  named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation  in 

30  a  stone  cottage  that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedgerows 
near  the  village  of  Eaveloe,  and  not  far  from  the  edge 
of  a  deserted  stone  pit.  The  questionable  sound  of 
Silas's  loom,  so  unlike  the  natural  cheerful  trotting 


SILAS  MARNER  27 

of  the  winnowing  machine,  or  the  simpler  rhythm  of 
the  flail,  had  a  half -fearful  fascination  for  the  Kaveloe 
boys,  who  would  often  leave  ofl;  their  nutting  or  birds'- 
nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of  the  stone  cottage, 
counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the  mysterious  ac-  5 
tion  of  the  loom  by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scornful  supe- 
riority, drawn  from  the  mockery  of  its  alternating 
noises,  along  with  the  bent,  treadmill  attitude  of  the 
weaver.  But  sometimes  it  happened  that  Marner,  paus- 
ing to  adjust  an  irregularity  in  his  thread,  became  aware  ic 
of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though  chary  of  his  time, 
he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would  descend 
from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the  door,  would  fix  on  them 
a  gaze  that  was  always  enough  to  make  them  take  to 
their  legs  in  terror.  For  how  was  it  possible  to  believe  15 
that  those  large  brown  protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Mar- 
ner^s  pale  face  really  saw  nothing  very  distinctly  that 
was  not  close  to  them,  and  not  rather  that  their  dread- 
ful stare  could  dart  cramp,  or  rickets,  or  a  wry  mouth  at 
any  boy  who  happened  to  be  in  the  rear?  They  had,  20 
perhaps,  heard  their  fathers  and  mothers  hint  that  Silas 
Marner  could  cure  folks^  rheumatism  if  he  had  a  mind, 
and  add,  still  more  darkly,  that  if  you  could  only  speak 
the  devil  fair  enough,  he  might  save  you  the  cost  of  the 
doctor.  Such  strange  lingering  echoes  of  the  old  de-  25 
mon  worship  might  perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by 
the  diligent  listener  among  the  gray-haired  peasantry; 
for  the  rude  mind  with  difficulty  associates  the  ideas 
of  power  and  benignity.  A  shadowy  conception  of 
power  that  by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to  refrain  30 
from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily  taken  by 
the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men  who  have 
always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive  wants,  and  to 


28  SILAS  MARKER 

whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been  illuminated  by 
any  enthusiastic  religious  faith.  To  them  pain  and 
mishap  present  a  far  wider  range  of  possibilities  than 
gladness  and  enjoyment:  their  imagination  is  almost 
5  barren  of  the  images  that  feed  desire  and  hope,  but  is 
all  overgrown  by  recollections  that  are  a  perpetual  pas- 
ture to  fear.  ''  Is  there  anything  you  can  fancy  that  you 
would  like  to  eat?^^  I  once  said  to  an  old  laboring- 
man,  who  was  in  his  last  illness,  and  who  had  refused 

10  all  the  food  his  wife  had  offered  him.  ''  No/^  he  an  - 
swered,  "  Tve  never  been  used  to  nothing  but  common 
victual,  and  I  can^t  eat  that.^^  Experience  had  bred 
no  fancies  in  him  that  could  raise  the  phantasm  of 
appetite. 

15  And  Eaveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old 
echoes  lingered,  undrowned  by  new  voices.  IsTot  that 
it  was  one  of  those  barren  parishes  lying  on  the  outskirts 
of  civilization — inhabited  by  meager  sheep  and  thinly 
scattered  shepherds:  on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in  the  rich 

20  central  plain  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  Merry  Eng- 
land, and  held  farms  which,  speaking  from  a  spiritual 
point  of  view,  paid  highly  desirable  tithes.  But  it  was 
nestled  in  a  snug  well-wooded  hollow,  quite  an  hour's 
journey  on  horseback  from  any  turnpike,  where  it  was 

25  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of  the  coach  horn  or  of 
public  opinion.  It  was  an  important-looking  village, 
with  a  fine  old  church  and  large  churchyard  in  the  heart 
of  it,  and  two  or  three  large  brick-and-stone  homesteads, 
with  well-walled  orchards  and  ornamental  weathercocks, 

30  standing  close  upon  the  road,  and  lifting  more  imposing 
fronts  than  the  rectory,  which  peeped  from  among  the 
trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  churchyard — a  village 
which  showed  at  once  the  summits  of  its  social  life,  and 


SILAS  MARNER  29 

told  the  practiced  eye  that  there  was  no  great  park  and 
manor  house  in  the  vicinity^  but  that  there  were  sev- 
eral chiefs  in  Eaveloe  who  could  farm  badly  quite  at 
their  ease,  drawing  enough  money  from  their  bad 
farming,  in  those  war  times,  to  live  in  a  rollicking  5 
fashion,  and  keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and 
Easter  tide. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  Silas  Marner  had  first  come 
to  Eaveloe;  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young  man,  with 
prominent,  short-sighted  brown  eyes,  whose  appearance  lo 
Nvould  have  had  nothing  strange  for  people  of  average 
culture  and  experience,  but  for  the  villagers  near  whom 
he  had  come  to  settle  it  had  mysterious  peculiarities 
which  corresponded  with  the  exceptional  nature  of  his 
occupation  and  his  advent  from  an  unknown  region  15 
called  "  JSTorth^ard/^  So  had  his  way  of  life — he  invited 
no  comer  to  step  across  his  doorsill,  and  he  never 
strolled  into  the  village  to  drink  a  pint  at  the  Rainbow, 
or  to  gossip  at  the  wheelwright^s;  he  sought  no  man  or 
woman,  save  for  the  purposes  of  his  calling,  or  in  order  20 
to  supply  himself  with  necessaries;  and  it  was  soon  clear 
to  the  Eaveloe  lasses  that  he  would  never  urge  one  of 
them  to  accept  him  against  her  will — quite  as  if  he  had 
heard  them  declare  that  they  would  never  marry  a  dead 
man  come  to  life  again.  This  view  of  Marner's  person-  25 
ality  was  not  without  another  ground  than  his  pale  face 
and  unexampled  eyes;  for  Jem  Eodney,  the  mole  catcher, 
averred  that,  one  evening  as  he  was  returning  home- 
ward, he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against  a  stile  with 
a  heavy  bag  on  his  back,  instead  of  resting  the  bag  on  so 
the  stile  as  a  man  in  his  senses  would  have  done;  and 
that,  on  coming  up  to  him,  he  saw  that  Marner's  eyes 
were  set  like  a  dead  man's,  and  he  spoke  to  him  and 


30  SILAS  MARKER 

shook  him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and  his  hands 
clutched  the  hag  as  if  they^d  been  made  of  iron;  but 
just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver  was 
dead,  he  came  all  right  again,  like,  as  you  might  say, 
5  in  the  winking  of  an  eye,  and  said  "  Good-night,^^  and 
walked  off.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had  seen,  more  by 
token  that  it  was  the  very  day  he  had  been  mole  catch- 
ing on  Squire  Cassis  land,  down  by  the  old  saw  pit. 
Some  said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a  "  fit,^^  a  word 

10  which  seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  incredible; 
but  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey,  clerk  of  the  parish,' 
shook  his  head,  and  asked  if  anybody  was  ever  known  to 
go  off  in  a  fit  and  not  fall  down.  A  fit  was  a  stroke, 
wasn't  it?  and  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  stroke  to  partly 

15  take  away  the  use  of  a  man's  limbs  and  throw  him  on 
the  parish,  if  he'd  got  no  children  to  look  to.  [NTo,  no; 
it  was  no  stroke  that  would  let  a  man  stand  on  his  legs, 
like  a  horse  between  the  shafts,  and  then  walk  off  as 
soon  as  you  can  say  "  Gee ! "    But  there  might  be  such 

20  a  thing  as  a  man's  soul  being  loose  from  his  body,  and 
going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out  of  its  nest  and  back; 
and  that  was  how  folks  got  overwise,  for  they  went  to 
school  in  this  shell-less  state  to  those  who  could  teach 
them  more  than  their  neighbors  could  learn  with  their 

25  five  senses  and  the  parson.  And  where  did  Master  Mar- 
ner get  his  knowledge  of  herbs  from — and  charms,  too, 
if  he  liked  to  give  them  away?  Jem  Kodney's  story 
was  no  more  than  what  might  have  been  expected  by 
anybody  who  had  seen  how  Marner  had  cured  Sally 

30  Gates,  and  made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when  her  heart 
had  been  beating  enough  to  burst  her  body  for  two 
months  and  more,  while  she  had  been  under  the  doctor's 
care.    He  might  cure  more  folks  if  he  would;  but  he  was 


SILAS  MARNER  31 

worth  speaking  fair,  if  it  was  only  to  keep  him  from 
doing  you  a  mischief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was 
indebted  for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that 
his  singularities  might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but  still  5 
more  to  the  fact  that,  the  old  linen  weaver  in  the  neigh- 
boring parish  of  Tarley  being  dead,  his  handicraft 
made  him  a  highly  welcome  settler  to  the  richer  house- 
wives of  the  district,  and  even  to  the  more  provident 
cottagers,  who  had  their  little  stock  of  yarn  at  the  year's  10 
end.  Their  sense  of  his  usefulness  would  have  coun- 
teracted any  repugnance  or  suspicion  which  was  not 
confirmed  by  a  deficiency  in  the  quality  or  the  tale  of 
the  cloth  he  wove  for  them.  And  the  years  had  rolled 
on  without  producing  any  change  in  the  impressions  of  15 
the  neighbors  concerning  Marner,  except  the  change 
from  novelty  to  habit.  At  the  end  of  fifteen  years  the 
Eaveloe  men  said  just  the  same  things  about  Silas  Mar- 
ner as  at  the  beginning;  they  did  not  say  them  quite  so 
often,  but  they  believed  them  much  more  strongly  when  20 
they  did  say  them.  There  was  only  one  important  addi- 
tion which  the  years  had  brought:  it  was,  that  Master 
Marner  had  laid  by  a  fine  sight  of  money  somewhere, 
and  that  he  could  buy  up  "  bigger  men ''  than  himself. 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained  25 
nearly  stationary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  presented 
scarcely  any  visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life  had 
been  a  history  and  a  metamorphosis,  as  that  of  every 
fervid  nature  must  be  when  it  has  fled,  or  been  con- 
demned, to  solitude.  His  life,  before  he  came  to  Eave-  so 
loe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement,  the  mental 
activity,  and  the  close  fellowship,  which,  in  that  day 
as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan  early  incor- 


32  SILAS  MARNER 

porated  in  a  narrow  religious  sect,  where  the  poorest 
layman  has  the  chance  of  distinguishing  himself  by 
gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the  very  least,  the  weight 
of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of  his  community. 
5  Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in  that  little  hidden 
world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assembling  in  Lan- 
tern Yard;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young  man  of  exem- 
plary life  and  ardent  faith;  and  a  peculiar  interest  had 
been  centered  in  him  ever  since  he  had  fallen,  at  a  pray- 
10  er  meeting,  into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of 
consciousness,  which,  lasting  for  an  hour  or  more,  had 
been  mistaken  for  death.  To  have  sought  a  medical  ex- 
planation for  this  phenomenon  would  have  been  held  by 
Silas  himself,  as  well  as  by  his  minister  and  fell  ow- 
ls members,  a  willful  self -exclusion  from  the  spiritual  sig- 
nificance that  might  lie  therein.  Silas  was  evidently  a 
brother  selected  for  a  peculiar  discipline;  and  though 
the  effort  to  interpret  this  discipline  was  discouraged  by 
the  absence,  on  his  part,  of  any  spiritual  vision  during 
20  his  outward  trance,  yet  it  was  believed  by  himself  and 
others  that  its  effect  ws'^  seen  in  an  accession  of  light 
and  fervor.  A  less  truthful  man  than  he  might  have 
been  tempted  into  the  subsequent  creation  of  a  vision  in 
the  form  of  resurgent  memory;  a  less  sane  man  might 
25  have  believed  in  such  a  creation  ;  but  Silas  was  both  sane 
and  honest,  though,  as  with  many  honest  and  fervent 
men,  culture  had  not  defined  any  channels  for  his  sense 
of  mystery,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over  the  proper  path- 
way of  inquiry  and  knowledge.  He  had  inherited  from 
30  his  mother  some  acquaintance  with  medicinal  herbs  and 
their  preparation — a  little  store  of  wisdom  which  she 
had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest — but  of  late 
years  he  had  had  doubts  about  the  lawfulness  of  apply- 


SILAS  MARNER  33 

ing  this  knowledge,  believing  that  herbs  could  have  no 
efficacy  without  prayer,  and  that  prayer  might  suffice 
without  herbs;  so  that  his  inherited  delight  to  wander 
through  the  fields  in  search  of  foxglove  and  dandelion 
and  coltsfoot  began  to  wear  to  him  the  character  of  a  5 
temptation. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one 
young  man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he 
had  long  lived  in  such  close  friendship  that-  it  was  the 
custom  of  their  Lantern  Yard  brethren  to  call  them  10 
David  and  Jonathan.  The  real  name  of  the  friend  was 
William  Dane,  and  he,  too,  was  regarded  as  a  shining 
instance  of  youthful  piety,  though  somewhat  given  to 
over-severity  toward  weaker  brethren,  and  to  be  so  daz- 
zled by  his  own  light  as  to  hold  himself  wiser  than  his  15 
teachers.  But  whatever  blemishes  others  might  discern 
in  William,  to  his  friend^s  mind  he  was  faultless;  for 
Marner  had  one  of  those  impressible  self-doubting  na- 
tures which,  at  an  inexperienced  age,  admire  impera- 
tiveness and  lean  on  contradiction.  The  expression  of  20 
trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face,  heightened  by  that 
absence  of  special  observation,  that  defenceless,  deer- 
like gaze  which  belongs  to  large  prominent  eyes,  was 
strongly  contrasted  by  the  self-complacent  suppression 
of  inward  triumph  that  lurked  in  the  narrow  slanting  25 
eyes  and  compressed  lips  of  William  Dane.  One  of  the 
most  frequent  topics  of  conversation  between  the  two 
friends  was  Assurance  of  salvation:  Silas  confessed  that 
he  could  never  arrive  at  anything  higher  than  hope 
mingled  with  fear,  and  listened  with  longing  wonder  30 
when  William,  declared  that  he  had  possessed  unshaken 
assurance  ever  since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion,  he 
had  dreamed  that  he  saw  the  words  "  calling  and  elec- 


34  SILAS  MARNER 

tion  sure  ^'  standing  by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in 
the  open  Bible.  Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a 
pair  of  pale-faced  weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have 
been  like  young  winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in 

5  the  twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the 
friendship  had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  formation 
of  another  attachment  of  a  closer  kind.  For  some 
months  he  had  been  engaged  to  a  young  servant  woman, 

10  waiting  only  for  a  little  increase  to  their  mutual  savings 
in  order  to  their  marriage;  and  it  was  a  great  delight  to 
him  that  Sarah  did  not  object  to  William^s  occasional 
presence  in  their  Sunday  interviews.  It  was  at  this 
point  in  their  history  that  Silas's  cataleptic  fit  occurred 

15  during  the  prayer  meeting;  and  amidst  the  various 
queries  and  expressions  of  interest  addressed  to  him  by 
his  fellow-members,  William's  suggestion  alone  jarred 
with  the  general  sympathy  toward  a  brother  thus  sin- 
gled out  for  special  dealings.    He  observed  that,  to  him, 

20  this  trance  looked  more  like  a  visitation  of  Satan  than 
a  proof  of  divine  favor,  and  exhorted  his  friend  to  see 
that  he  hid  no  accursed  thing  within  his  soul.  Silas, 
feeling  bound  to  accept  rebuke  and  admonition  as  a 
brotherly  office,  felt  no  resentment,  but  only  pain,  at  his 

25  friend's  doubts  concerning  him;  and  to  this  was  soon 
added  some  anxiety  at  the  perception  that  Sarah's  man- 
ner toward  him  began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation 
between  an  effort  at  an  increased  manifestation  of  re- 
gard  and  involuntary  signs  of  shrinking  and  dislike.    He 

30  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement; 
but  she  denied  this:  their  engagement  was  known  to  the 
church,  and  had  been  recognized  in  the  praver  meetings ; 
it  could  not  be  broken  off  without  strict  investigation, 


SILAS  MARNER  35 

and  Sarah  could  render  no  reason  that  would  be  sanc- 
tioned by  the  feeling  of  the  community.  At  this  time 
the  sei'ior  deacon  was  taken  dangerously  ill,  and,  being 
a  childless  widower,  he  was  tended  night  and  day  by 
some  of  the  younger  brethren  or  sisters.  Silas  fre-  5 
quently  took  his  turn  in  the  night-watching  with  Wil- 
liam, the  one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in  the  morning. 
The  old  man,  contrary  to  expectation,  seemed  to  be  on 
the  way  to  recovery,  when  one  night  Silas,  sitting  up 
by  his  bedside,  observed  that  his  usual  audible  breathing  i€ 
had  ceased.  The  candle  was  burning  low,  and  he  had  to 
lift  it  to  see  the  patient^s  face  distinctly.  Examination 
convinced  him  that  the  deacon  was  dead — had  been  dead 
some  time,  for  the  limbs  were  rigid.  Silas  asked  himself 
if  he  had  been  asleep,  and  looked  at  the  clock:  it  was  15 
already  four  in  the  morning.  How  was  it  that  William 
had  not  come?  In  much  anxiety  he  went  to  seek  for 
help,  and  soon  there  were  several  friends  assembled  in 
the  house,  the  minister  among  them,  while  Silas  went 
away  to  his  work,  wishing  he  could  have  met  William  20 
to  know  the  reason  of  his  non-appearance.  But  at  six 
o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking  of  going  to  seek  his  friend, 
William  came,  and  with  him  the  minister.  They  came 
to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to  meet  the  church 
members  there;  and  to  his  inquiry  concerning  the  cause  25 
of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was,  "  You  will  hear.'' 
iSTothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was  seated  in  the 
vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the  eyes  of  those 
who  to  him  represented  God's  people  fixed  solemnly 
upon  him.  Then  the  minister,  taking  out  a  pocketknife,  3C 
showed  it  to  Silas,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  he 
had  left  that  knife?  Silas  said  he  did  not  know  that; 
he  had  left  it  nnj^vhere  out  of  his  own  pocket — but  he 


36  SILAS  MARKER 

was  trembling  at  this  strange  interrogation.  He  was 
then  exhorted  not  to  hide  his  sin,  but  to  confess  and 
repent.  The  knife  had  been  found  in  the  bureau  by 
the    departed    deacon^s    bedside — found    in    the    place 

5  where  the  little  bag  of  church  money  had  lain,  which 
the  minister  himself  had  seen  the  day  before.  Some 
hand  had  removed  that  bag;  and  whose  hand  could  it 
be,  if  not  that  of  the  man  to  whom  the  knife  belonged? 
For  some  time  Silas  was  mute  with  astonishment;  then 

10  he  said,  "  God  will  clear  me:  I  know  nothing  about  the 
knife  being  there,  or  the  money  being  gone.  Search  me 
and  my  .dwelling:  you  will  find  nothing  but  three  pound 
five  of  my  own  savings,  which  William  Dane  knows  I 
have  had  these  six  months.'^    At  this  William  groaned, 

15  but  the  minister  said,  "  The  i>roof  is  heavy  against  you, 
brother  Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in  the  night  last 
past,  and  no  man  was  with  our  depaited  brother  but 
you,  for  William  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he  was  hin- 
dered by  sudden  sickness  from  going  to  take  his  place  as 

20  usual,  and  you  yourself  said  that  he  had  not  come;  and, 
moreover,  you  neglected  the  dead  body.*^ 

"  I  must  have  slept,^^  said  Silas.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
he  added,  ''  Or  I  must  have  had  another  visitation  like 
that  which  you  have  all  seen  me  under,  so  that  the 

25  thief  must  have  come  and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the 
body,  but  out  of  the  body.  But,  I  say  again,  search  me 
and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have  been  nowhere  else.^^ 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended — in  William 
Dane's  finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  be- 

30  hind  the  chest  of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber!  On  this 
William  exhorted  his  friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide 
his  sin  any  longer.  Silas  turned  a  look  of  keen  re- 
proach on  him,  and  said,  ^'  William,  for  nine  years  that 


SILAS  MARKER  37 

we  liaA^e  gone  in  and  out  together^  have  you  ever  known 
me  tell  a  lie?     But  God  will  clear  me/' 

"  Brother/^  said  William,  "  how  do  I  know  what 
you  may  have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart, 
to  give  Satan  an  advantage  over  you? ''  ^ 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a 
deep  flush  came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to  speak 
impetuously,  when  he  seemed  checked  again  by  some  in- 
Avard  shock  that  sent  the  flush  back  and  made  him 
tremble.  But  at  last  he  spoke  feebly,  looking  at  Wil-  lO 
Ham. 

"  I  remember  now — the  knife  wasn^t  in  my  pocket.^^ 

William  said,  "  I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean.^^ 
The  other  persons  present,  how^ever,  began  to  inquire 
where  Silas  meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  but  he  i* 
would  give  no  further  explanation;  he  only  said,  "  I  am 
sore  stricken;  I  can  say  nothing.    God  wdll  clear  me.'' 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  de- 
liberation. Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertain- 
ing the  culprit  was  contrary  to  the  principles  of  the  2a 
church  in  Lantern  Yard,  according  to  which  prosecution 
was  forbidden  to  Christians,  even  had  the  case  held  less 
scandal  to  the  community.  But  the  members  were 
bound  to  take  other  measures  for  finding  out  the  truth, 
and  they  resolved  on  praying  and  drawing  lots.  This  25 
resolution  can  be  a  ground  of  surprise  only  to  those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  that  obscure  religious  life  which 
has  gone  on  in  the  alleys  of  our  towns.  Silas  knelt  with 
his  brethren,  relying  on  his  own  innocence  being  certi- 
fied by  immediate  divine  interference,  but  feeling  that  3i 
there  was  sorrow  and  mourning  behind  for  him  even 
then — that  his  trust  in  man  had  been  cruelly  bruised. 
The  lots  declared  that  Silas  Marner  was  guilty.    He  was 


38  SILAS  MARNER 

solemnly  suspended  from  church  membership,  and  called 
upon  to  render  up  the  stolen  money:  only  on  confession, 
as  the  sign  of  repentance,  could  he  be  received  once 
more  within  the  folds  of  the  church.  Marner  listened 
5  in  silence.  At  last,  when  every  one  rose  to  depart,  he 
went  toward  William  Dane,  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken 
by  agitation: 

"  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife  was 
when  I  took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.    I  donH  re- 

10  member  putting  it  in  my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the 
money,  and  you  have  woven  the  plot  to  lay  the  sin 
at  my  door.  But  you  may  prosper,  for  all  that;  there 
is  no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth  righteously,  but  a 
God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness  against  the  innocent.^^ 

15        There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  "  I  leave  our  brethren  to  judge 
whether  this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  pray  for  you,  Silas.^^ 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul, 

20  that  shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little  short 
of  madness  to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness  of 
his  w^ounded  spirit,  he  said  to  himself,  ^^  She  will  cast 
me  off  too.^^  And  he  reflected  that,  if  she  did  not  be- 
lieve the  testimony  against  him,  her  whole  faith  must 

25  be  upset,  as  his  was.  To  people  accustomed  to  reason 
about  the  forms  in  which  their  religious  feeling  has  in- 
corporated itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that  simple, 
untaught  state  of  mind  in  which  the  form  and  the  feel- 
ing have  never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  reflection. 

30  We  are  apt  to  think  it  inevitable  that  a  man  in  Marner's 
position  should  have  begun  to  question  the  validity  of 
an  appeal  to  the  divine  judgment  by  drawing  lots;  but 
to  him  this  would  have  been  an  effort  of  iudenendent 


SILAS  MARNER  39 

thought  such  as  he  had  never  known;  and  he  must  have 
made  the  effort  at  a  moment  when  all  his  energies  were 
turned  into  the  anguish  of  disappointed  faith.  If  there 
is  an  angel  who  records  the  sorrows  of  men  as  well  as 
their  sins^  he  knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sorrows  5 
that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is  cul- 
pable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone, 
stunned  by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to  Sarah 
and  attempt  to  win  her  belief  in  his  innocence.     The  lo 
second  day  he  took  refuge  from  benumbing  unbelief  by 
getting  into  his  loom  and  working  away  as  usual;  and 
before  many  hours  were  past,  the  minister  and  one  of 
the  deacons  came  to  him  with  the  message  from  Sarah, 
that  she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at  an  end.     Silas  is 
received  the  message  mutely,  and  then  turned  away 
from  the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom  again.    In  little 
more  than  a  month  from  that  time,  Sarah  was  married 
to  William  Dane;  and  not  long  afterward  it  was  known 
to  the  brethren  in  Lantern  Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  20 
departed  from  the  town. 


CHAPTER  11 

Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various 
by  learning  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold 
on  their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the 
Invisible — nay,  on  the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and 
5  sorrows  are  a  real  experience,  when  they  are  suddenly 
transported  to  a  new  land,  where  the  beings  around 
them  know  nothing  of  their  history,  and  share  none  of 
their  ideas — where  their  mother  earth  shows  another 
lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms  than  those  on  which 

10  their  souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds  that  have  been 
unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and  love  have  perhaps 
sought  this  Lethean  influence  of  exile,  in  which  the  past 
becomes  dreamy  because  its  symbols  have  all  vanished, 
and  the  present,  too,  is  dreamy  because  it  is  linked  with 

15  no  memories.  But  even  their  experience  may  hardly  en- 
able them  thoroughly  to  imagine  what  was  the  effect  on 
a  simple  weaver  like  Silas  Marner,  when  he  left  his  own 
country  and  people  and  came  to  settle  in  Eaveloe. 
Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  his  native  town,  set  with- 

20  in  sight  of  the  widespread  hillsides,  than  this  low, 
wooded  region,  where  he  felt  hidden  even  from  the 
heavens  by  the  screening  trees  and  hedgerows.  There 
was  nothing  here,  when  he  rose  in  the  deep  morning 
quiet  and  looked  out  on  the  dewy  brambles  and  rank 

«5  tufted  grass,  that  soemed  to  have  any  relation  with  that 
40 


SILAS  MARNER  41 

life  centering  in  Lantern  Yard,  which  had  once  been 
to  him  the  altar-place  of  high  dispensations.  The  white- 
washed walls;  the  little  pews  where  well-known  figures 
entered  with  a  subdued  rustling,  and  where  first  one 
well-known  voice  and  then  another,  pitched  in  a  peculiar  6 
key  of  petition,  uttered  phrases  at  once  occult  and  fa- 
miliar, like  the  amulet  worn  on  the  heart;  the  pulpit 
where  the  minister  delivered  unquestioned  doctrine,  and 
swayed  to  and  fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a  long- 
accustomed  manner;  the  very  pauses  between  the  coup-  lo 
lets  of  the  hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent 
swell  of  voices  in  song:  these  things  had  been  the  chan- 
nel of  divine  influences  to  Marner — they  were  the  fos- 
tering home  of  his  religious  emotions — they  were  Chris- 
tianity and  God's  kingdom  upon  earth.  A  weaver  who  15 
finds  hard  words  in  his  hymn  book  knows  nothing  of  ab- 
stractions; as  the  little  child  knows  nothing  of  parental 
love,  but  only  knows  one  face  and  one  lap  toward  which 
it  stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and  nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard  20 
world  than  the   world  in  Eaveloe? — orchards  looking 
lazy  with  neglected  plenty;  the  large  church  in  the  wide 
churchyard,  which  men  gazed  at  lounging  at  their  own 
doors  in  service-time;  the  purple-faced  farmers  jogging 
along  the  lanes  or  turning  in  at  the  Eainbow;  home-  25 
steads,  where  men  supped  heavily  and  slept  in  the  light 
of  the  evening  hearth,  and  where  women  seemed  to  be 
laying  up  a  stock  of  linen  for  the  life  to  come.     There 
were  no  lips  in  Raveloe  from  which  a  word  could  fall 
that  would  stir  Silas  Marner's  benumbed  faith  to  a  sense  30 
of  pain.    In  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  we  know,  it  was 
believed  that  each  territory  was  inhabited  and  ruled  by 
its  own  divinities,  so  that  a  man  could  cross  the  border- 


42  SILAS  MARKER 

ing  heights  and  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  native  gods, 
whose  presence  was  confined  to  the  streams  and  the 
groves  and  the  hills  among  which  he  had  lived  from  his 
birth.  And  poor  Silas  was  vaguely  conscious  of  some- 
5  thing  not  unlike  the  feeling  of  primitive  men,  w^hen 
they  fled  thus,  in  fear  or  in  sullenness,  from  the  face  of 
an  unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  Power 
he  had  vainly  trusted  in  am.ong  the  streets  and  at  the 
prayer  meetings  was  very  far  away  from  this  land  in 

10  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived  in  careless 
abundance,  knowing  and  needing  nothing  of  that  trust 
which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bitterness.  The 
little  light  he  possessed  spread  its  beams  so  narrowly, 
that  frustrated  belief  was  a  curtain  broad  enough  to 

15  create  for  him  the  blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to 
work  in  his  loom;  and  he  went  on  with  this  unremit- 
tingly, never  asking  himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to 
Kaveloe,  he  worked  far  on  into  the  night  to  finish  the 

20  tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected— without  contemplating  beforehand  the  money 
she  would  put  into  his  hand  for  the  work.  He  seemed 
to  weave,  like  the  spider,  from  pure  impulse,  without 
reflection.    Every  man's  work,  pursued  steadily,  tends  in 

25  this  way  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to  bridge 
over  the  loveless  chasms  of  his  life.  Silas's  hand  satis- 
fied itself  with  throwing  the  shuttle,  and  his  eye  with 
seeing  the  little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete  themselves 
under  his  effort.    Then  there  w^ere  the  calls  of  hunger; 

30  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to  provide  his  own  break- 
fast, dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch  his  own  water  from  the 
well,  and  put  his  own  kettle  on  the  fire;  and  all  these 
immediate  promptings  helped,  along  with  the  weaving. 


SILAS  MARNER  43 

to  reduce  his  life  to  the  unquestioning  activity  of  a 
spinning  insect.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the  past;  there 
was  nothing  that  called  out  his  love  and  fellowship 
toward  the  strangers  he  had  come  among;  and  the  fu- 
ture was  all  dark,  for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  5 
cared  for  him.  Thought  was  arrested  by  utter  bewilder- 
ment, now  its  old  narrow  pathway  was  closed,  and  affec- 
tion seemed  to  have  died  under  the  bruise  that  had 
fallen  on  its  keenest  nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished,  IG 
and  Silas  was  paid  in  gold.     His  earnings  in  his  native 
town,  where  he  worked  for  a  wholesale  dealer,  had  been 
after  a  lower  rate;  he  had  been  paid  weekly,  and  of 
his  weekly  earnings  a  large  proportion  had  gone  to  ob- 
jects of  piety  and  charity.     IN'ow,  for  the  first  time  in  15 
his  life,  he  had  five  bright  guineas  put  into  his  hand; 
no  man  expected  a  share  of  them,  and  he  loved  no  man 
that  he  should  offer  him  a  share.     But  what  were  the 
guineas  to  him  who  saw  no  vista  beyond  countless  days  of 
weaving?     It  was  needless  for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  20 
M'as  pleasant  to  him  to  feel  them  in  his  palm,  and  look 
at  their  bright  faces,  which  were  all  his  own:  it  was 
another  element  of  life,  like  the  weaving  and  the  satis- 
faction of  hunger,  subsisting  quite  aloof  from  the  life  of 
belief  and  love  from  which  he  had  been  cut  off.     The  23- 
weaver's  hand  had  known  the  touch  of  hard-won  money 
even  before  the  palm  had  grown  to  its  full  breadth;  for 
twenty  years,  mysterious  money  had  stood  to  him  a^ 
the  symbol  of  earthly  good,  and  the  immediate  object  of 
toil.    He  had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years  when  3P 
every  penny  had  its  purpose  for  him;  for  he  loved  the 
purpose  then.     But  now,  when  all  purpose  was  gone, 
that  habit  of  looking  toward  the  money  and  grasping  it 


44  SILAS  MARKER 

with  a  sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that  was 
deep  enough  for  the  seeds  of  desire;  and  as  Silas  walked 
homeward  across  the  fields  in  the  twilight,  he  drew  out 
the  money,  and  thought  it  was  brighter  in  the  gathering 
5  gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which  seemed 
to  open  a  possibility  of  some  fellowship  with  his  neigh- 
bors. One  day,  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be  mended^ 
he  saw  the  cobbler's  wife  seated  by  the  fire,  suffering 

10  from  the  terrible  symptoms  of  heart-disease  and  dropsy^ 
which  he  had  witnessed  as  the  precursors  of  his  mother's 
death.  He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at  the  mingled  sight  and 
remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  relief  his  mother  had 
found  from  a  simple  preparation  of  foxglove,  he  prom- 

15  ised  Sally  Gates  to  bring  her  something  that  would  ease 
her,  since  the  doctor  did  her  no  good.  In  this  office  of 
charity,  Silas  felt,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come 
to  Kaveloe,  a  sense  of  unity  between  his  past  and  pres- 
ent life,  which  might  have  been  the  beginning  of  his 

20  rescue  from  the  insectlike  existence  into  which  his 
nature  had  shrunk.  But  Sally  Oates's  disease  had  raised 
her  into  a  personage  of  much  interest  and  importance 
among  the  neighbors,  and  the  fact  of  her  having  found 
relief  from  drinking  Silas  Marner's  ^"^  stuff ''  became  a 

25  matter  of  general  discourse.  When  Doctor  Kimble  gave 
physic,  it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an  effect;  but 
when  a  weaver,  who  came  from  nobody  knew  where, 
vorked  wonders  with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the  oc- 
cult character  of  the  process  was  evident.     Such  a  sort 

30  of  thing  had  not  been  known  since  the  Wise  Woman  at 
Tarley  died;  and  she  had  charms  as  well  as  "stuff''; 
everybody  went  to  her  when  their  children  had  fits. 
Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the  same  sort,  for  how 


SILAS  MARNER  45 

did   he    know   what   would   bring   back    Sally    Oates's 
breathy  if  he  didn't  know  a  fine  sight  more  than  that? 
The  Wise  Woman  had  words  that  she  muttered  to  her- 
self, so  that  you  couldn't  hear  what  they  were,  and  if 
she  tied  a  bit  of  red  thread  round  the  child's  toe  the  5 
while,  it  would  keep  off  the  water  in  the  head.     There 
were  women  in  Eaveloe,  at  that  present  time,  who  had 
worn  one  of  the  Wise  Woman's  little  bags  round  their    ' 
necks,  and,  in  consequence,  had  never  had  an  idiot  child, 
^s  Ann  Coulter  had.    Silas  Marner  could  very  likely  do  10 
as  much,  and  more;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how  he 
should  have  come  from  unknown  parts,  and  be  so  "  com- 
ical-looking.'^    But  Sally  Gates  must  mind  and  not  tell 
the  doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  set  his  face  against 
Marner:  he  was  always  angry  about  the  Wise  Woman,  15 
and  used  to  threaten  those  who  went  to  her  that  they 
should  have  none  of  his  help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly 
beset  by  mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the 
whooping-cough,  or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men  20 
who  wanted  stuff  against  the  rheumatics  or  the  knots 
in  the  hands;  and,  to  secure  themselves  against  a  re- 
fusal, the  applicants  brought  silver  in  their  palms.  Silas 
might  have  driven  a  profitable  trade  in  charms  as  well 
as  in  his  small  list  of  drugs;  but  money  on  this  condi-  2?, 
tion  was  no  temptation  to  him:  he  had  never  known 
an  impulse  toward  falsity,  and  he  drove  one  after  an- 
other away  with  growing  irritation,  for  the  news  of  him 
as  a  wise  man  had  spread  even  to  Tarley,  and  it  was 
long  before  people  ceased  to  take  long  walks  for  the  sake  3« 
of  asking  his  aid.  But  the  hope  in  his  wisdom  was  at 
length  changed  into  dread,  for  no  one  believed  him 
when  he  said  he  knew  no  charms  and  could  work  no 


46  SILAS  MARNER 

cures,  and  every  man  and  woman  who  had  an  accident 
or  a  new  attack  after  applying  to  him,  set  the  misfor- 
tune down  to  Master  Marner^s  ill-will  and  irritated 
glances.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  his  movement  of 
5  pity  toward  Sally  Gates,  which  had  given  him  a 
transient  sense  of  brotherhood,  heightened  the  repul- 
sion between  him  and  his  neighbors,  and  made  his 
isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half- 

10  crowns  grew  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less  for 
his  own  wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  keeping 
himself  strong  enough  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  on 
as  small  an  outlay  as  possible.  Have  not  men,  shut  up 
in  solitary  imprisonment,  found  an  interest  in  mark- 

15  ing  the  moments  by  straight  strokes  of  a  certain  length 
on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of  the  sum  of  straight 
strokes,  arranged  in  triangles,  has  become  a  mastering 
purpose?  Do  we  not  wile  away  moments  of  inanity 
or  fatigued  waiting  by  repeating  some  trivial  movement 

20  or  sound,  until  the  repetition  has  bred  a  want,  which  is 
incipient  habit?  That  will  help  us  to  understand  how 
the  love  of  accumulating  money  grows  an  absorbing  pas- 
sion in  men  whose  imaginations,  even  in  the  very  be- 
ginning of  their  hoard,  showed  them  no  purpose  beyond 

25  it.  Marner  wanted  the  heaps  of  ten  to  grow  into  a 
square,  and  then  into  a  larger  square;  and  every  added 
guinea,  while  it  was  itself  a  satisfaction,  bred  a  new 
desire.  In  this  strange  world,  made  a  hopeless  riddle 
to  him,  he  might,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense  nature, 

30  have  sat  weaving,  weaving — looking  toward  the  end  of 
his  pattern,  or  toward  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot 
the  riddle,  and  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sensa- 
tions; but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his  weaving 


SIliAS  MABNBJB  47 

into  periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew,  but  it  re-  , 
mained  with  him.    He  began  to  think  it  was  conscious 
of  him,  as  his  loom  was,  and  lue  would  on  no  account 
Jiave  exchanged  those  coins,  which  had  become  his  fa- 
miliars, for  other  coins  with  unknown  faces.    He  han-  5 
died  them,  he  counted  them,  till  their  form  and  colour 
w(  i(  Jjk(   the  satisfaction  of  a  thirst  to  him;  but  it  wa« 
only  in  the  night,  when  his  work  was  done,  that  he  drew 
them  out  to  enjoy  their  companionBhip.    He  had  taken 
up  some  bricks  in  his  floor  underneath  his  loom,  and  here  10 
he  had  made  a  hole  in  w^hich  he  set  the  iron  pot  tliat 
contained  his  guineas  and  silver  coins,  covering  the 
bricks  with  sand  whenever  he  replaced  them.    Not  that 
the  idea   of  being  robbed   presented   itself   often  or 
strongly  to  his  mind:  hoarding  was  common  in  country  15 
districts  in  those  days;  there  were  old  laborers  in  the 
parish  of  Raveloe  who  were  known  to  have  their  savings 
by  them,  probably  inside   their  flock-beds;  but  their 
rustic  neighbors,  though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as 
iJieir  ancestors  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had  not  20 
imaginations  bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary. 
How  could  they  have  spent  the  money  in  their  own  vil- 
lage without  betraying  themselves?     They  would  be 
obliged  to  "run  away'' — a  course  as  dark  and  dubious 
a  balloon  journey.  25 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this 
~f»litude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his  life 

arrowing  and  hardening  itself  more  and  more  into  a 
jjiere  pulsation  of  desire  and  satisfaction  that  had  no 
f  f  lation  to  any  other  being.    His  life  had  reduced  itself  » 

)  the  functions  of  weaving  and  hoarding,  w^ithout  any 
i  ontemplation  of  an  end  toward  which  the  functions 
tended.    The  same  sort  of  process  has  perhaps  been  un- 


^S  SILAS  MARNER 

dergone  by  wiser  men,  when  they  have  been  cut  off  from 
faith  and  love — only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of 
guineas,  they  have  had  some  erudite  research,  some  in- 
genious project,  or  some  well-knit  theory.  Strangely 
5  Marner's  face  and  figure  shrank  and  bent  themselves 
into  a  constant  mechanical  relation  to  the  objects  of  his 
life,  so  that  he  produced  the  same  sort  of  impression  as 
a  handle  or  a  crooked  tube,  which  has  no  meaning  stand- 
ing apart.  The  prominent  eyes  that  used  to  look  trusting 
10  and  dreamy  now  looked  as  if  they  had  been  made  to  see 
only  one  kind  of  thing  that  was  very  small,  like  tiny 
grain,  for  which  they  hunted  everywhere:  and  he  was 
so  withered  and  yellow  that,  though  he  was  not  yet 
forty,  the  children  always  called  him  "  Old  Master  Mar- 
is ner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering,  a  little  incident 
happened  which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was 
not  all  gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch  his 
water  from  a  well  a  couple  of  fields  off,  and  for  this 
20  purpose,  ever  since  he  came  to  Eaveloe,  he  had  had  a 
brown  earthenware  pot,  which  he  held  as  his  most 
precious  utensil,  among  the  very  few  conveniences  he 
had  granted  himself.  It  had  been  his  companion  for 
twelve  years,  always  standing  on  the  same  spot,  always 
25  lending  its  handle  to  him  in  the  early  morning,  so  that 
its  form  had  an  expression  for  him  of  willing  helpful- 
ness, and  the  impress  of  its  handle  on  his  palm  gave  a 
satisfaction  mingled  with  that  of  having  the  fresh  clear 
water.  One  day  as  he  was  returning  from  the  well  he 
so  stumbled  against  the  step  of  the  stile,  and  his  brown  pot, 
falling  with  force  against  the  stones  that  overarched  the 
ditch  below  him,  was  broken  in  three  pieces.  Silas 
picked  up  the  pieces  and  carried  them  home  with  grief 


SILAS  MARNER  49 

in  his  heart.  The  brown  pot  could  never  be  of  use 
to  him  any  more,  but  he  stuck  the  bits  together  and 
propped  the  ruin  in  its  old  place  for  a  memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner  until  the  fifteenth 
year  after  he  came  to  Eaveloe.     The  livelong  day  he  5 
sat  in  his  loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monotony,  his  eyes 
bent  close  down  on  the  slow  growth  of  sameness  in  the 
brownish  web,  his  muscles  moving  with  such  even  repe- 
tition that  their  pause  seemed  almost  as  much  a  con- 
straint as  the  holding  of  his  breath.    But  at  night  came  lo 
his  revelry:  at  night  he  closed  his  shutters,  and  made 
fast  his  doors,  and  drew  forth  his  gold.     Long  ago  the 
heap  of  coins  had  become  too  large  for  the  iron  pot  to 
hold  them,  and  he  had  made  for  them  two  thick  leather 
bags,  which  wasted  no  room  in  their  resting  place,  but  15 
lent   themselves   flexibly   to    every   corner.      How   the 
guineas  shone  as  they  came  pouring  out  of  the  dark 
leather  mouths!    The  silver  bore  no  large  proportion  in 
amount  to  the  gold,  because  the  long  pieces  of  linen 
'.vhich  formed  his  chief  work  were  always  partly  paid  for  20 
in  gold,  and  out  of  the  silver  he  supplied  his  own  bodily 
wants,  choosing  always  the  shillings  and  sixpences  to 
spend  in  this  way.     He  loved  the  guineas  best,  but  he 
would   not   change   the   silver — the   crowns   and   half- 
crowns  that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his  25 
labor;  he  loved  them  all.      He  spread  them  out  in 
heaps  and  bathed  his  hands  in  them;  then  he  counted 
them  and  set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and  felt  their 
rounded  outline  between  his  thumb  and  fingers,  and 
thought   fondly  of  the   guineas   that   were   only   half  30 
earned  by  the  work  in  his  loom,  as  if  they  had  been 
unborn  children — thought  of  the  guineas  that  were  com- 
ing slowly  through  the  coming  years,  through  all  his 


50  SILAS  MARKER 

life,  which  spread  far  away  before  him,  the  end  quite 
hidden  by  countless  days  of  weaving.  ISFo  wonder  his 
thoughts  were  still  with  his  loom  and  his  money  when 
he  made  his  journeys  through  the  fields  and  the  lanes 
5  to  fetch  and  carry  home  his  work,  so  that  his  steps  never 
wandered  to  the  hedge  banks  and  the  laneside  in  search 
of  the  once  familiar  herbs:  these,  too,  belonged  to  the 
past,  from  which  his  life  had  shrunk  away,  like  a  rivulet 
that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy  fringe  of  its 

10  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread,  that  cuts  a 
groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year  a 
second  great  change  came  over  Marner^s  life,  and  his 
history  became  blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the  life 

15  of  his  neighbors. 


m)»i 


CHAPTER  III 

The  greatest  man  in  Eaveloe  was  Squire  Cass,  who 
lived  in  the  large  red  house,  with  the  handsome  flight 
of  stone  steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it, 
nearly  opposite  the  church.  He  was  only  one  among 
several  landed  parishioners,  but  he  alone  was  honored  5 
with  the  title  of  Squire;  for  though  Mr.  Osgood's  family 
vv^as  also  understood  to  be  of  timeless  origin — the  Eave- 
loe imagination  having  never  ventured  back  to  that 
fearful  blank  when  there  were  no  Osgoods — still  he 
merely  owned  the  farm  he  occupied;  whereas  Squire  10 
Cass  had  a  tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of  the  game 
to  him  quite  as  if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to 
be  a  peculiar  favor  of  Providence  toward  the  landed 
interest,  and  the  fall  of  prices  had  not  yet  come  to  carry  15 
the  race  of  small  squires  and  yeomen  down  that  road  to 
ruin  for  which  extravagant  habits  and  bad  husbandry 
were  plentifully  anointing  their  wheels.  I  am  speak- 
ing now  in  relation  to  Raveloe  and  the  parishes  that  re- 
sembled it;  for  our  old-fashioned  country  life  had  many  20 
different  aspects,  as  all  life  must  have  when  it  is  spread 
over  a  various  surface,  and  breathed  on  variously  by 
multitudinous  currents,  from  the  winds  of  heaven  to 
the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are  forever  moving  and 
crossing  each  other,  with  incalculable  results.     Raveloe  25 

51 


52  SILAS  MARNER 

lay  low  among  the  bushy  trees  and  the  rutted  lanes, 
aloof  from  the  currents  of  industrial  energy  and  Puritan 
earnestness:  the  rich  ate  and  drank  freely,  accepting 
gout  and  apoplexy  as  things  that  ran  mysteriously  in 
5  respectable  families,  and  the  poor  thought  that  the 
rich  were  entirely  in  the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly  life; 
besides,  their  feasting  caused  a  multiplication  of  orts, 
which  were  the  heirlooms  of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay 
scented  the  boiling  of  Squire  Cass's  hams,  but  her  long- 

10  ing  was  arrested  by  the  unctuous  liquor  in  which  they 
were  boiled;  and  when  the  seasons  brought  round  the 
great  merrymakings,  they  were  regarded  on  all  hands 
as  a  fine  thing  for  the  poor.  For  the  Eaveloe  feasts  were 
like  the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels  of  ale — they  were 

15  on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while,  especially  in 
the  winter  time.  After  ladies  had  packed  up  their 
best  gowns  and  topknots  in  bandboxes,  and  had  in- 
curred the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  with  the 
precious  burden  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when  there 

20  was  no  knowing  how  high  the  water  would  rise,  it  was 
not  to  be  supposed  that  they  looked  forward  to  a  brief 
pleasure.  On  this  ground  it  was  always  contrived  in  the 
dark  seasons,  when  there  was  little  work  to  be  done,  and 
the  hours  were  long,  that  several  neighbors  should  keep 

25  open  house  in  succession.  So  soon  as  Squire  Cass's 
standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and  freshness,  his 
guests  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  a  little  higher  up 
the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  at  the  Orchards,  and  they 
found  hams  and  chines  uncut,  pork  pies  with  the  scent 

80  of  the  fire  in  them,  spun  butter  in  all  its  freshness — 
everything,  in  fact,  that  appetites  at  leisure  could  de- 
sire, in  perhaps  greater  perfection,  though  not  in  greater 
abundance,  than  at  Squire  Cass's. 


SILAS  MARNER  53 

For  the  Squire^s  wife  had  died  long  ago^  and  the 
Red  House  was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and 
mother  which  is  the  fountain  of  wholesome  love  and 
fear  in  parlor  and  kitchen;  and  this  helped  to  account 
not  only  for  there  being  more  profusion  than  finished  5 
excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions,  but  also  for  the 
frequency  with  which  the  proud  Squire  condescended 
to  preside  in  the  parlor  of  the  Eainbow  rather  than 
under  the  shadow  of  his  own  dark  wainscot;  perhaps, 
also,  for  the  fact  that  his  sons  had  turned  out  rather  lo 
ill.  Eaveloe  was  not  a  place  where  moral  censure  was 
severe,  but  it  was  thought  a  weakness  in  the  Squire 
that  he  had  kept  all  his  sons  at  home  in  idleness;  and 
though  some  license  was  to  be  allowed  to  young  men 
whose  fathers  could  afford  it,  people  shook  their  heads  15 
at  the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan,  commonly 
called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swapping  and  bet- 
ting might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of  something  worse 
than  wild  oats.  To  be  sure,  the  neighbors  said,  it  was 
no  matter  what  became  of  Dunsey — a  spiteful,  jeering  20 
fellow,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  his  drink  the  more  when 
other  people  went  dry — always  provided  that  his  doings 
did  not  bring  trouble  on  a  family  like  Squire  Cass's,  with 
a  monument  in  the  church,  and  tankards  older  than 
King  George.  But  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  Mr.  25 
Godfrey,  the  eldest,  a  fine,  open-faced,  good-natured 
3^oung  man,  who  was  to  come  into  the  land  some  day, 
should  take  to  going  along  the  same  road  with  his 
brother,  as  he  had  seemed  to  do  of  late.  If  he  went  on 
in  that  way,  he  would  lose  Miss  N'ancy  Lammeter;  for  30 
it  was  well  known  that  she  had  looked  very  shyly  on 
aim  ever  since  last  Whitsuntide  twelvemonth,  when 
there  was  so  much  talk  about  his  being  away  from  home 


54  SILAS  MARNER 

days  and  days  together.  There  was  something  wrong, 
more  than  common — that  was  quite  clear;  for  Mr.  God- 
frey didn^t  look  half  so  fresh-colored  and  open  as  he 
used  to  do.     At  one  time  everybody  was  saying,  What 

5  a  handsome  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter  would 
make!  and  if  she  could  come  to  be  mistress  at  the  Eed 
House  there  would  be  a  fine  change,  for  the  Lammeters 
had  been  brought  up  in  that  way,  that  they  never  suf- 
fered a  pinch  of  salt  to  be  wasted,  and  yet  everybody 

10  in  their  household  had  of  the  best,  according  to  his 
place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law  would  be  a  saving  to  the 
old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a  penny  to  her  for- 
tune; for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  notwithstanding  his 
incomings,  there  were  more  holes  in  his  pocket  than  the 

15  one  where  he  put  his  own  hand  in.  But  if  Mr.  Godfrey 
didn^t  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  he  might  say  "  Good-by  '^ 
to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing, 
with  his  hands  in  his  side  pockets  and  his  back  to  the 

20  fire,  in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlor,  one  late  November 
afternoon,  in  that  fifteenth  year  of  Silas  Marner's  life 
at  Eaveloe.  The  fading  gray  light  fell  dimly  on  the 
walls  decorated  with  guns,  whips,  and  foxes'  brushes,  on 
coats  and  hats  flung  on  the  chairs,  on  tankards  send- 

25  ing  forth  a  scent  of  fiat  ale,  and  on  a  half-choked  fire, 
with  pipes  propped  up  in  the  chimney  corners:  signs  of 
a  domestic  life  destitute  of  any  hallowing  charm,  witli 
which  the  look  of  gloomy  vexation  on  Godfrey^s  blond 
face  was  in  sad  accordance.     He  seemed  to  be  waiting 

80  and  listening  for  some  one's  approach,  and  presently 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  step,  with  an  accompanying  whistle, 
was  heard  across  the  large  empty  entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened^,   and   a  thick-set.  heavy-lookins 


i  SILAS  MARNER  55 

young  man  entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the  gratu- 
itously elated  bearing  which  mark  the  first  stage  of  in- 
toxication. It  was  Dunsey,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  God- 
frey's face  parted  with  some  of  its  gloom  to  take  on 
the  more  active  expression  of  hatred.  The  handsome  5 
brown  spaniel  that  lay  on  the  hearth  retreated  under 
the  chair  in  the  chimney  corner. 

"  Well,   Master   Godfrey,   what  do  you  w^ant  with 
me?''  said  Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.     "You're  my 
elders  and  betters,  you  know;  I  was  obliged  to  come  lo 
when  you  sent  for  me." 

"  Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake  yourself 
sober  and  listen,  will  you?  "  said  Godfrey  savagely.  He 
had  himself  been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him, 
trying  to  turn  his  gloom  into  uncalculating  anger.  "  I  15 
want  to  tell  you,  I  must  hand  over  that  rent  of  Fowler's 
to  the  Squire,  or  else  tell  him  I  gave  it  you;  for  he's 
threatening  to  distrain  for  it,  and  it'll  all  be  out  soon, 
whether  I  tell  him  or  not.  He  said,  just  now,  before  he 
went  out,  he  should  send  word  to  Cox  to  distrain,  if  Fow-  20 
ler  didn't  come  and  pay  up  his  arrears  this  week.  The 
Squire's  short  o'  cash,  and  in  no  humor  to  stand  any 
nonsense;  and  you  know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he 
found  you  making  away  with  his  money  again.  So,  see 
and  get  the  money,  and  pretty  quickly,  will  you?"  25 

"Oh!"  said  Dunsey  sneeringly,  coming  nearer  to 
his  brother  and  looking  in  his  face.  "  Suppose,  now,  you 
get  the  money  yourself,  and  save  me  the  trouble,  eh? 
Since  you  was  so  kind  as  to  hand  it  over  to  me,  you'll 
not  refuse  me  the  kindness  to  pay  it  back  for  me :  it  was  so 
your  brotherly  love  made  you  do  it,  you  know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.     "  Don't 
come  near  me  with  that  look,  else  I'll  knock  you  down" 


■      56  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Oh  no,  yon  won^t/^  said  Dnnsey,  tnrning  away  on 
his  heel,  however.  "  Because  Pm  such  a  good-natured 
brother,  you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out  of 
house  and  home,  and  cut  oft'  with  a  shilling  any  day.  I 
6  might  tell  the  Squire  how  his  handsome  son  was  mar- 
ried to  that  nice  young  woman,  Molly  Farren,  and  was 
very  unhappy  because  he  couldnH  live  with  his  drunken 
wife,  and  I  should  slip  into  your  place  as  comfortable  as 
could  be.  But,  you  see,  I  don't  do  it — I'm  so  easy  and 
30  good-natured.  You'll  take  any  trouble  for  me.  You'll 
get  the  hundred  pounds  for  me — I  know  you  will." 

^^How  can  I  get  the  money?"  said  Godfrey,  quiv- 
ering. "  I  haven't  a  shilling  to  bless  myself  with.  And 
it's  a  lie  that  you'd  slip  into  my  place :  you'd  get  yourself 
15  turned  out  too,  that's  all.  For  if  you  begin  telling  tales, 
I'll  follow.  Bob's  my  father's  favorite — you  know  that 
very  well.    He'd  only  think  himself  well  rid  of  you." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  side- 
ways as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  It  'ud  be  very 
20  pleasant  to  me  to  go  in  your  company — you're  such  a 
handsome  brother,  and  we've  always  been  so  fond  of 
quarreling  with  one  another  I  shouldn't  know  what  to 
do  without  you.  But  you'd  like  better  for  us  both  to 
stay  at  home  together;  I  know  you  would.  So  you'll 
25  manage  to  get  that  little  sum  o'  money,  and  I'll  bid 
you  good-by,  though  I'm  sorry  to  part." 

Dunstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed  after 
him  and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with  an  oath: 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money:  I  can  get  no  money. '^ 
so        "  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

"  I  tell  you,  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I 
shan't  ask  him." 

"  Well  then,  sell  Wildfire." 


SILAS  MARNER  67 

^^Yes,  that's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money 
directly/' 

"  Well,  you've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to- 
morrow. There'll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for  sure. 
You'll  get  more  bids  than  one."  5 

''  I  dare  say,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
splashed  up  to  the  chin.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood's 
birthday  dance." 

''  Oho! "  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble.     "  And  lo 
there's  sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming;  and  we  shall  dance 
with  her,  and  promise  never  to  be  naughty  again,  and 
be  taken  into  favor,  and ^" 

"Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool," 
said  Godfrey,  turning  red,  "  else  I'll  throttle  you."  i^ 

''  What  for?  "  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone, 
but  taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt- 
end  of  it  on  his  palm.  "  You've  a  very  good  chance. 
I'd  advise  you  to  creep  up  her  sleeve  again:  it  'ud  be 
saving  time  if  Molly  should  happen  to  take  a  drop  too  ^ 
much  laudanum  some  day,  and  make  a  widower  of  you. 
Miss  Nancy  wouldn't  mind  being  a  second,  if  she  didn't 
know  it.  And  you've  got  a  good-natured  brother,  who'll 
keep  your  secret  well,  because  you'll  be  so  very  obliging 
to  him."  2^ 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering, 
and  pale  again,  "  my  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an  end. 
If  you'd  a  little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you  might  know 
that  you  may  urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far,  and  make  one 
leap  as  easy  as  another.  I  don't  know  but  what  it  is  so  3a 
now:  I  may  as  well  tell  the  Squire  everything  myself — 
I  should  get  you  off  my  back,  if  I  got  nothing  else. 
And,  after  all,  he'll  know  some  time.    She's  been  threat- 


58  SILAS  MARNER 

ening  to  come  herself  and  tell  him.  So,  don't  flatter 
yourself  that  your  secrecy^s  worth  any  price  you  choose 
to  ask.  You  drain  me  of  money  till  I  have  got  nothing 
to  pacify  lier  with,  and  she'll  do  as  she  threatens  some 
5  day.  It's  all  one.  I'll  tell  my  father  everything  myself, 
and  you  may  go  to  the  devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark, 
and  that  there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesitating 
Godfrey  might  be  driven  into  decision.     But  he  said, 

10  with  an  air  of  unconcern: 

"  As  you  please;  but  I'll  have  a  draught  of  ale  first." 
And  ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself  across  two  chairs, 
and  began  to  rap  the  window  seat  with  the  handle  of 
his  whip. 

15  Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  un- 
easily moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his 
side  pockets,  and  looking  at  the  floor.  That  big  mus- 
cular frame  of  his  held  plenty  of  animal  courage,  but 
helped   him   to   no   decision  when   the   dangers   to   be 

20  braved  were  such  as  could  neither  be  knocked  down 
nor  throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and  moral  cow- 
ardice were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in  which  dreaded 
consequences  seemed  to  press  equally  on  all  sides,  and 
his  irritation  had  no  sooner  provoked  him  to  defy  Dun- 

25  stan  and  anticipate  all  possible  betrayals,  than  the 
miseries  he  must  bring  on  himself  by  such  a  step  seemed 
more  unendurable  to  him  than  the  present  evil.  The 
results  of  confession  were  not  contingent,  they  were 
certain;  whereas  betrayal  was  not  certain.     From  the 

30  near  vision  of  that  certainty  he  fell  back  on  suspense 
and  vacillation  with  a  sense  of  repose.  The  disinherited 
son  of  a  small  squire,  equally  disinclined  to  dig  and  to 
beg,  was  almost  as  helpless  as  an  uprooted  tree,  which, 


SILAS  MARNER  59 

by  the  favor  of  earth  and  sky,  has  grown  to  a  handsome 
bulk  on  the  spot  where  it  first  shot  upward.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  possible  to  think  of  digging  with  some 
cheerfulness  if  Nancy  Lammeter  were  to  be  won  on 
those  terms;  but,  since  he  must  irrevocably  lose  her  as  5 
well  as  the  inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie  but 
the  one  that  degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive 
for  trying  to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no 
future  for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession  but 
that  of  ''  ^listing  for  a  soldier," — the  most  desperate  lo 
step,  short  of  suicide,  in  the  eyes  of  respectable  families. 
No!  he  would  rather  trust  to  casualties  than  to  his  own 
resolve — rather  go  on  sitting  at  the  feast  and  sipping 
the  wine  he  loved,  though  with  the  sword  hanging  over 
him  and  terror  in  his  heart,  than  rush  away  into  the  i5 
cold  darkness  where  there  was  no  pleasure  left.  The 
utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the  horse  began  to 
seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfillment  of  his  own 
threat.  But  his  pride  would  not  let  him  recommence 
the  conversation  otherwise  than  by  continuing  the  quar-  20 
rel.  D  austan  was  waiting  for  this,  and  took  his  ale  in 
shorter  draughts  than  usual. 

'^  It's  just  like  you,'^  Godfrey  burst  out,  in  a  bitter 
tone,  "  to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool 
way — the  last  thing  I've  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the  25 
best  bit  of  horse-flesh  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if 
you'd  got  a  spark  of  pride  in  you,  you'd  be  ashamed  to 
see  the  stables  emptied,  and  everybody  sneering  about 
it.  But  it's  my  belief  you'd  sell  yourself,  if  it  was  only 
for  the  pleasure  of  making  somebody  feel  he'd  got  a  so 
bad  bargain." 

^^  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,   ^'  you  do 
me  justice,  I  see.     You  know  I'm  a  jewel  for  'ticing 


60  SILAS  MARNHR 

people  into  bargains.  For  which  reason  I  advise  you  tc 
let  me  sell  Wildfire.  Fd  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morro\^ 
for  yon,  with  pleasure.  I  shouldnH  look  so  handsome 
as  you  in  the  saddle,  but  iFs  the  horse  they'll  bid  for 

5  and  not  the  rider.'' 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say — trust  my  horse  to  you !  " 
"  As  you  please,"  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the  window 
seat  again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern.     "  It's  yoi 
have  got  to  pay  Fowler's  money;  it's  none  of  my  busi 

10  ness.  You  received  the  money  from  him  when  you  wem 
to  Bramcote,  and  you  told  the  Squire  it  wasn't  paid 
Fd  nothing  to  do  with  that;  you  chose  to  be  so  oblig 
ing  as  to  give  it  me,  that  was  all.  If  you  don't  want  t( 
pay  the  money,  let  it  alone;  it's  all  one  to  me.    But  - 

15  was  willing  to  accommodate  you  by  undertaking  to  sel 
the  horse,  seeing  it's  not  convenient  to  you  to  go  so  fai 
to-morrow." 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moments.  He  woulc 
have   liked   to   spring   on  Dunstan,   wrench   the   whi]; 

20  from  his  hand,  and  flog  him  to  within  an  inch  o^ 
his  life;  and  no  bodily  fear  could  have  deterred  him 
but  he  was  mastered  by  another  sort  of  fear,  whicl 
was  fed  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his  resent- 
ment.   When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a  half-concili- 

25  atory  tone. 

"Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh! 
You'll  sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the  money?  I: 
you  don't,  you  know,  everything  'ull  go  to  smash,  foi 
I've  got  nothing  else  to  trust  to.    And  you'll  have  les! 

30  pleasure  in  pulling  the  house  over  my  head,  when  youi 
own  skull's  to  be  broken  too." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising;  "  all  right.  1 
"thought  you'd  come  round.    I'm  the  fellow  to  bring  olc 


SILAS  MARNER  61 

Bryce  up  to  the  scratch.     Til  get  you  a  hundred  and 
twenty  for  him,  if  I  get  you  a  penny /^ 

"  But  it'll  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as 
it  did  yesterday,  and  then  you  can't  go/'  said  Godfrey, 
hardly  knowing  whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle  or  5 
not. 

''  ITot  tY,"  said  Dunstan.  "  I'm  always  lucky  in  my 
weather.  It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself. 
You  never  hold  trumps,  you  know — I  always  do.  You've 
got  the  beauty,  you  see,  and  I've  got  the  luck,  so  you  lo 
must  keep  me  by  you  for  your  crooked  sixpence;  you'll 
ne-ver  get  along  without  me." 

"  Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue ! "  said  Godfrey 
impetuously.    "  And  take  care  to  keep  sober  to-morrow, 
else  you'll  get  pitched  on  your  head  coming  home,  and  15 
Wildfire  might  be  the  worse  for  it." 

"  Make  your  tender  heart  easy,"  said  Dunstan,  open- 
ing the  door.  ''  You  never  knew  me  see  double  when 
I'd  got  a  bargain  to  make;  it  'ud  spoil  the  fun.  Besides 
whenever  I  fall,  I'm  warranted  to  fall  on  my  legs."  20 

With  that  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  per- 
sonal circumstances  which  was  now  unbroken  from  day 
to  day  save  by  the  excitement  of  sporting,  drinking, 
card  playing,  or  the  rarer  and  less  oblivious  pleasure  of  25 
seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter.  The  subtle  and  varied 
pains  springing  from  the  higher  sensibility  that  accom- 
panies higher  culture,  are  perhaps  less  pitiable  than  that 
dreary  absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment  and  consolation 
w^hich  leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual  urgent  com-  30 
panionship  of  their  own  griefs  and  discontents.  The 
lives  of  those  rural  forefathers  whom  we  are  apt  to 
think  very  prosaic  figures — men  whose  only  work  was  to 


62  SILAS   MARNER 

ride  round  their  land,  getting  heavier  and 'heavier  in 
their  saddles,  and  who  passed  the  rest  of  their  days  in 
the  half-listless  gratification  of  senses  dulled  by  monot- 
ony— had  a  certain  pathos  in  them  nevertheless.     Ca- 

5  lamities  came  to  them  too,  and  their  early  errors  carried 
hard  consequences:  perhaps  the  love  of  some  sweet 
maiden,  the  image  of  purity,  order,  and  calm,  had 
opened  their  eyes  to  the  vision  of  a  life  in  which  the 
days  would  not  seem  too  long,  even  without  rioting; 

10  but  the  maiden  was  lost,  and  the  vision  passed  away,  and 
then  what  was  left  to  them,  especially  when  they  had 
become  too  heavy  for  the  hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun 
over  the  furrows,  but  to  drink  and  get  merry,  or  to  drink 
and  get  angry,  so  that  they  might  be  independent  of 

15  variety,  and  say  over  again  with  eager  emphasis  the 
things  they  ha^  said  already  any  time  that  twelve- 
month? Assuredly,  among  these  flushed  and  dull-eyed 
men  there  were  some  whom — thanks  to  their  native 
human  kindness — even  riot  could  never  drive  into  bru- 

20  tality;  men  who,  when  their  cheeks  were  fresh,  had  felt 
the  keen  point  of  sorrow  or  remorse,  had  been  pierced 
by  the  reeds  they  leaned  on,  or  had  lightly  put  their 
limbs  in  fetters  from  which  no  struggle  could  loose 
them;  and  under  these  sad  circumstances,  common  to  us 

25  all,  their  thoughts  could  find  no  resting  place  outside 
the  ever-trodden  round  of  their  own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass 
in  this  six  and  twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  movement 
of  compunction,  helped  by  those  small  indefinable  in- 

80  fluences  which  every  personal  relation  exerts  on  a  pliant 
nature,  had  urged  him  into  a  secret  marriage,  which  was 
a  blight  on  his  life.  It  was  an  ugly  story  of  low  passion, 
delusion,  and  waking  from  delusion,  which  needs  not 


I 


SILAS  MARNER  63 


to  be   dragged  from  the   privacy   of   Godfrey's  bitter 
memory.     He  had  long  known  that  the  delusion  was 
partly  due  to  a  trap  laid  for  him  by  Dnnstan,  who  saw 
in  his  brother's  degrading  marriage  the  means  of  grati- 
fying at  once  his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupidity.    And  if  5 
Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself  simply  a  victim,  the  iron 
bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his  mouth  would  have 
chafed  him  less  intolerably.    If  the  curses  he  muttered 
half  aloud  when  he  was  alone  had  had  no  other  object 
than    Dunstan's    diabolical    cunning,    he    might    have  lo 
shrunk  less  from  the  consequences  of  avowal.     But  he 
had   something  else   to   curse — his   own  vicious  folly, 
w^hich  now  seemed  as  mad  and  unaccountable  to  him 
as  almost  all  our  follies  and  vices  do  when  their  prompt- 
ings have  long  passed  away.     For  four  years  he  had  i^ 
thought  of  Xancy  Lammeter,  and  wooed  her  with  tacit 
patient  worship,  as  the  woman  who  made  him  think  of 
the  future  with  joy:  she  would  be  his  wife,  and  would 
make  home  lovely  to  him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never 
been;  and  it  would  be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near,  20 
to  shake  off  those  foolish  habits  that  w^ere  no  pleasures, 
but  only  a  feverish  way  of  annulling  vacancy.    Godfrey's' 
was  an  essentially  domestic  nature,  bred  up  in  a  home 
where  the  hearth  had  no  smiles,  and  where  the  daily 
habits  were  not  chastised  by  the  presence  of  household  25 
order.     His  easy  disposition  made  him  fall  in  unresist- 
ingly with  the  family  courses,  but  the  need  of  some 
tender  permanent  affection,  the  longing  for  some  in- 
fluence that  would  make  the  good  he  preferred  easy  to 
pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  order-  30 
liness  of  the  Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the  smile 
of  Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours  of  the 
morning,  when  temptations  go  to  sleep,  and  leave  the 


64  SILAS  MARKER 

ear  open  to  the  voice  of  the  good  angel,  inviting  to  in- 
dustry, sobriety,  and  peace.  And  yet  the  hope  of  this 
paradise  had  not  been  enough  to  save  him  from  a  course 
which  shut  him  out  of  it  forever.  Instead  of  keeping 
5  fast  hold  of  the  strong  silken  rope  by  which  Nancy 
would  have  drawn  him  safe  to  the  green  banks,  where 
it  was  easy  to  step  firmly,  he  had  let  himself  be  dragged 
back  into  mud  and  slime,  in  which  it  was  useless  to 
struggle.     He  had  made  ties  for  himself  which  robbed 

10  him  of  all  wholesome  motive,  and  were  a  constant  ex- 
asperation. 

Still,  there  was  one  position  worse  than  the  present: 
it  was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  secret 
was  disclosed;  and  the  desire  that  continually  triumphed 

15  over  every  other  was  that  of  warding  off  the  evil  day, 
when  he  would  have  to  bear  the  consequences  of  his 
father^s  violent  resentment  for  the  wound  inflicted  on 
his  family  pride — would  have,  perhaps,  to  turn  his  back 
on  that  hereditary  ease  and  dignity  which,  after  all,  was 

20  a  sort  of  reason  for  living,  and  would  carry  with  him 
the  certainty  that  he  was  banished  forever  from  the 
sight  and  esteem  of  Nancy  Lammeter.  The  longer  the 
interval,  the  more  chance  there  was  of  deliverance  from 
some,  at  least,  of  the  hateful  consequences  to  which  he 

25  had  sold  himself;  the  more  opportunities  remained  for 
him  to  snatch  the  strange  gratification  of  seeing  Nancy, 
and  gathering  some  faint  indications  of  her  lingering 
regard.  Toward  this  gratification  he  was  impelled,  fit- 
fully, every  now  and  then,  after  having  passed  weeks  in 

30  which  he  had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off,  bright-winged 
prize,  that  only  made  him  spring  forward,  and  find  his 
chain  all  the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of  yearning 
was  on  him  now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong  enough 


I  SILAS  MARNER  65 

to  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  Wildfire  to  Dunstan 
rather  than  disappoint  the  yearning,  even  if  he  had  not 
had  another  reason  for  his  disinclination  toward  the 
morrow^s  hunt.  That  other  reason  was  the  fact  that  the 
morning's  meet  was  near  Batherley,  the  market  town  5 
where  the  unhappy  w^oman  lived,  whose  image  became 
more  odious  to  him  every  day;  and  to  his  thought  the 
whole  vicinage  was  haunted  by  her.  The  yoke  a  man 
creates  for  himself  by  wrongdoing  will  breed  hate  in  the 
kindliest  nature;  and  the  good-humored,  affectionate-  lo 
hearted  Godfrey  Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bitter  man, 
visited  by  cruel  wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter,  and  de- 
part, and  enter  again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in 
him  a  ready-garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time?  15> 
He  might  as  well  go  to  the  Kainbow,  and  hear  the  talk 
about  the  cock-fighting:  everybody  was  there,  and  what 
else  was  there  to  be  done?  Though,  for  his  own  part, 
he  did  not  care  a  button  for  cock-fighting.  Snuff,  the 
brown  spaniel,  w^ho  had  placed  herself  in  front  of  him,  20 
and  had  been  watching  him  for  some  time,  now  jumped 
up  in  impatience  for  the  expected  caress.  But  Godfrey 
thrust  her  away  without  looking  at  her,  and  left  the 
room,  followed  humbly  by  the  unresenting  Snuff — per- 
haps because  she  saw  no  other  career  open  to  her.  25 


CHAPTEE  IV 

DuNSTAK  Cass^  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at 
the  judiciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to 
ride  to  cover  on  his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along 
the  lane  which,  at  its  farther  extremity,  passed  by  the 

5  piece  of  uninclosed  ground  called  the  Stone-pit,  where 
stood  the  cottage,  once  a  stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for 
fifteen  years  inhabited  by  Silas  Marner.  The  spot 
looked  very  dreary  at  this  season,  with  the  moist  trodden 
clay  about  it,  and  the  red,  muddy  water  high  up  in  the 

10  deserted  quarry.  That  was  Dunstan's  first  thought  as 
he  approached  it;  the  second  was,  that  the  old  fool  of  a 
weaver,  whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  already,  had  a 
great  deal  of  money  hidden  somewhere.  How  was  it 
that  he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  had  often  heard  talk  of 

15  Marner's  miserliness,  had  never  thought  of  suggesting 
to  Godfrey  that  he  should  frighten  or  persuade  the  old 
fellow  into  lending  the  money  on  the  excellent  security 
of  the  young  Squire's  prospects?  The  resource  occurred 
to  him  now  as  so  easy  and  agreeable,  especially  as  Mar- 

20  ner's  hoard  was  likely  to  be  large  enough  to  leave  God- 
frey a  handsome  surplus  beyond  his  immediate  needs, 
and  enable. him  to  accommodate  his  faithful  brother, 
that  he  had  almost  turned  the  horse's  head  toward  home 
again.     Godfrey  would  be  ready  enough  to  accept  the 

25  suggestion:  he  would  snatch  eagerly  at  a  plan  that  might 
66 


SILAS  MARNER  67 

save  him  from  parting  with  Wildfire.  But  when  Dun- 
stan's  meditation  reached  this  point,  the  inclination  to 
go  on  grew  strong  and  prevailed.  He  didn^t  want  to 
give  Godfrey  that  pleasure:  he  preferred  that  Master 
Godfrey  should  be  vexed.  Moreover,  Dunstan  enjoyed  5 
the  self-important  consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to 
sell,  and  the  opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain,  swagger- 
ing, and,  possibly,  taking  somebody  in.  He  might  have 
all  the  satisfaction  attendant  on  selling  his  brother's 
horse,  and  not  the  less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  10 
setting  Godfrey  to  borrow  Marner's  money.  So  he  rode 
on  to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was  quite 
sure  they  would  be — he  was  such  a  lucky  fellow. 

^^  Heyday,''  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye  15 
on  Wildfire,  "you're  on  your  brother's  horse   to-day: 
how's  that?" 

'  Oh,  I've  swapped  with  him,'^  said  Dunstan,  whose 
delight  in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was  not 
to  be  diminished  by  the  likelihood  that  his  hearer  would  20 
not  believe  him.    "  Wildfire's  mine  now." 

"  What!  has  he  swapped  with  you  for  that  big-boned 
hack  of  yours?  "  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that  he  should 
get  another  lie  in  answer. 

''  Oh,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,"  said  25 
Dunsey  carelessly,  ''  and  Wildfire  made  it  even.  I  ac- 
commodated him  by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was 
against  my  will,  for  I'd  an  itch  for  a  mare  0'  Jortin's — 
as  rare  a  bit  0'  blood  as  ever  you  threw  your  leg  across. 
But  I  shall  keep  Wildfire,  now  I've  got  him,  though  I'd  30 
a  bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  for  him  the  other  day,  from 
a  man  over  at  Flitton — he's  buying  for  Lord  Cromleck — 
a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a  green  waistcoat. 


68  SILAS  MARNER 

But  I  mean  to  stick  to  Wildfire :  I  shan't  get  a  better  at 
a  fence  in  a  hnrry.  The  mare's  got  more  blood,  but 
■^he's  a  bit  too  weak  in  the  hind-quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to 
5  sell  the  horse,  and  Dunstan  knew  that  he  divined  it 
(horse  dealing  is  only  one  of  many  human  transactions 
carried  on  in  this  ingenious  manner);  and  they  both 
considered  that  the  bargain  was  in  its  first  stage,  when 
Bryce  replied  ironically: 

10        "  I  wonder  at  that  now;  I  wonder  you  mean  to  keep 

him;  for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  didn't  want  to 

sell  his  horse  getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much  again  as  the 

horse  was  worth.    You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became 

16  more  complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the  horse 
by  Bryce  for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  })aid  on  the 
delivery  of  Wildfire,  safe  and  sound,  at  the  Batherley 
stables.  It  did  occur  to  Dunsey  that  it  might  be  wise 
for  him  to  give  up  the  day's  hunting,  proceed  at  once 

80  to  Batherley,  and,  having  waited  for  Bryce's  return,  hire 
a  horse  to  carry  him  home  with  the  mone3^in  his  pocket. 
But  the  inclination  for  a  run,  encouraged  by  confidence 
in  his  luck,  and  by  a  draught  of  brandy  from  his  pocket 
pistol  at  the  conclusion  of  the  bargain,  was  not  easy  to 

85  overcome,  especially  with  a  horse  under  him  that  would 
take  the  fences  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.  Dunstan, 
however,  took  one  fence  too  many,  and  got  his  horse 
pierced  with  a  hedge-stake.  His  own  ill-favored  per- 
son, which  was  quite  unmarketable,  escaped  without  in- 

30  jury;  but  poor  Wildfire,  unconscious  of  his  price,  turned 
on  his  flank,  and  painfully  panted  his  last.  It  happened 
that  Dunstan,  a  short  time  before,  having  had  to  get 
dcwn  to  arrange  his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good  many 


SILAS  MARKER  69 

curses  at  this  interruption,  which  had  thrown  him  in 
the  rear  of  the  hunt  near  the  moment  of  glory,  and 
under  this  exasperation  had  taken  the  fences  more 
blindly.  He  would  soon  have  been  up  with  the  hounds 
again,  when  the  fatal  accident  happened;  and  hence  3 
he  was  between  eager  riders  in  advance,  not  troubling 
themselves  about  what  happened  behind  them,  and  far- 
off  stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass  quite 
aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which  Wildfire  had  fallen. 
Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more  for  imme-  lO 
diate  annoyances  than  for  remote  consequences,  no 
sooner  recovered  his  legs,  and  saw  that  it  was  all  over 
with  Wildfire,  than  he  felt  a  satisfaction  at  the  absence 
of  witnesses  to  a  position  which  no  swaggering  could 
make  enviable.  Eeinforcing  himself,  after  his  shake,  15 
svith  a  little  brandy  and  much  swearing,  he  walked  as 
fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice  on  his  right  hand,  through 
which  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  make  his  way  to 
Batherley  without  danger  of  encountering  any  member 
of  the  hunt.  His  first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  20 
there  and  ride  home  forthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles 
without  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  along  an  ordinary  road, 
was  as  much  out  of  the  question  to  him  as  to  other 
spirited  young  men  of  his  kind.  He  did  not  much  mind 
about  taking  the  bad  news  to  Godfrey,  for  he  had  to  25 
offer  him  at  the  same  time  the  resource  of  Marner^s 
money;  and  if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  always  did,  at  the 
notion  of  making  a  fresh  debt,  from  which  he  himself 
got  the  smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't 
kick  long:  Dunstan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  ao 
into  anything.  The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  grow- 
ing in  vividness,  now  the  want  of  it  had  become  imme- 
diate; the  prospect  of  having  to  make  his  appearance 


70  SILAS   MARNER 

with  the  muddy  boots  of  a  pedestrian  at  Batherley,  and 
to  encounter  the  grinning  queries  of  stablemen^  stood 
unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his  impatience  to  be  back 
at  Kaveloe  and  carry  out  his  felicitous  plan;  and  a  casual 

6  visitation  of  his  waistcoat  pockety  as  he  was  ruminating, 
awakened  his  memory  to  the  fact  that  the  two  or  three 
small  coins  his  forefinger  encountered  there  were  of 
too  pale  a  color  to  cover  that  small  debt,  without  pay- 
ment of  which  the  stable  keeper  had  declared  he  would 

10  never  do  any  more  business  with  Dunsey  Cass.  After 
all,  according  to  the  direction  in  which  the  run  had 
brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much  farther  from 
home  than  he  was  from  Batherley;  but  Dunsey,  not  be- 
ing remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only  led  to 

15  this  conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that  there 
were  other  reasons  for  choosing  the  unprecedented 
course  of  walking  home.  It  was  now  nearly  four  o'clock, 
and  a  mist  was  gathering:  the  sooner  he  got  into  the 
road  the  better.     He  remembered  having  crossed  the 

20  road  and  seen  the  finger  post  only  a  little  while  before 
Wildfire  broke  down;  so,  buttoning  his  coat,  twisting 
the  lash  of  his  hunting  whip  compactly  round  the 
handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of  his  boots  with  a  self- 
possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  at 

25  all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  off  with  the  sense  that  he 
was  undertaking  a  remarkable  feat  of  bodily  exertion, 
which  somehow,  and  at  some  time,  he  should  be  able  to 
dress  up  and  magnify  to  the  admiration  of  a  select  circle 
at  the  Eainbow.    When  a  young  gentleman  like  Dunsey 

30  is  reduced  to  so  exceptional  a  mode  of  locomotion  as 
walking,  a  whip  in  his  hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  ta 
a  too  bewildering  dreamy  sense  of  unwonted  ness  in  his 
position;  and  Dunstan,  as  he  went  along  through  the 


SlLiAJS   MAKJSEK  71 

gathering  mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip  somewhere. 
It  was  Godfrey^s  whip,  which  he  had  chosen  to  take 
without  leave  because  it  had  a  gold  handle;  of  course  no 
one  could  see,  when  Dunstan  held  it,  that  the  name 
Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in  deep  letters  on  that  gold  handle  5 
— they  could  only  see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome  whip. 
Dunsey  was  not  without  fear  that  he  might  meet  some 
acquaintance  in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut  a  pitiable  fig- 
ure, for  mist  is  no  screen  when  people  get  close  to  each 
other;  but  when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  the  well-  lo 
known  Eaveloe  lanes  without  having  met  a  soul,  he 
silently  remarked  that  that  was  part  of  his  usual  good 
luck.  But  now  the  mist,  helped  by  the  evening  dark- 
ness, was  more  of  a  screen  than  he  desired,  for  it  hid  the 
ruts  into  w^hich  his  feet  were  liable  to  slip — hid  every-  15 
thing,  so  that  he  had  to  guide  his  steps  by  dragging  his 
whip  along  the  low  bushes  in  advance  of  the  hedgerow. 
He  must  soon,  he  thought,  be  getting  near  the  opening 
at  the  Stone-pits:  he  should  find  it  out  by  the  break  in 
the  hedgerow.  He  found  it  out,  however,  by  another  20 
circumstance  which  he  had  not  expected — namely,  by 
certain  gleams  of  light,  which  he  presently  guessed  to 
proceed  from  Silas  Marner's  cottage.  That  cottage  and 
the  money  hidden  within  it  had  been  in  his  mind  con- 
tinually during  his  walk,  and  he  had  been  imagining  25 
ways  of  cajoling  and  tempting  the  weaver  to  part  with 
the  immediate  possession  of  his  money  for  the  sake  of 
receiving  interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there  must  be 
a  little  frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own 
arithmetical  convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  afford  30 
him  any  forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advantages 
of  interest;  and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it  vaguely 
as  a  means  of  cheating  a  man  by  making  him  believe 


72  SILAS  MARNER 

1;hat  he  would  be  paid.  Altogether,  the  operation  on 
the  miser's  mind  was  a  task  that  Godfrey  would  be 
isnre  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring  and  cunning 
brother:  Dunstan  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that;  and 

5  by  the  time  he  saw  the  light  gleaming  through  the 
chinks  of  Marners  shutters,  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with 
the  weaver  had  become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  it  oc- 
curred to  him  as  quite  a  natural  thing  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance forthwith.     There  might  be  several  conven- 

10  iences  attending  this  course:  the  weaver  had  possibly  got 
a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of  feeling  his  way. 
He  was  still  nearly  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  home, 
and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly  slippery,  for 
the  mist  was  passing  into  rain.    He  turned  up  the  bank, 

15  not  without  some  fear  lest  he  might  miss  the  right  way, 
since  he  was  not  certain  whether  the  light  were  in  front 
or  on  the  side  of  the  cottage.  But  he  felt  the  ground 
before  him  cautiously  with  his  whip-handle,  and  at  last 
arrived  safely  at  the  door.     He  knocked  loudly,  rather 

20  enjoying  the  idea  that  the  old  fellow  would  be  fright- 
ened at  the  sudden  noise.  He  heard  no  movement  in 
reply:  all  was  silence  in  the  cottage.  Was  the  weaver 
gone  to  bed,  then?  H  so,  why  had  he  left  a  light? 
That  was  a  strange  forgetfulness  in  a  miser.     Dunstan 

25  knocked  still  more  loudly,  and,  without  pausing  for  a 
reply,  pushed  his  fingers  through  the  latch-hole,  in- 
tending to  shake  the  door  and  pull  the  latch-string  up 
and  down,  not  doubting  that  the  door  was  fastened. 
But,  to  his  surprise,  at  this  double  motion  the   door 

30  opened,  and  he  found  himself  in  front  of  a  bright  fire, 
which  lit  up  every  corner  of  the  cottage — the  bed,  the 
loom,  the  three  chairs,  and  the  table — and  showed  him 
that  Marner  was  not  there. 


SILAS  MARKER  7^ 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  in- 
yiting  to  Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick 
hearth:  he  walked  in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once. 
There  was  something  in  front  of  the  fire,  too,  that  would 
have  been  inviting  to  a  hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  5 
a  different  stage  of  cooking.  It  was  a  small  bit  of  pork 
suspended  from  the  kettle  hanger  by  a  string  passed 
through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known  to  primitive 
housekeepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.  But  the  pork  had 
been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger,  lo 
apparently  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding  too 
rapidly  during  the  owner's  absence.  The  old  staring 
simpleton  had  hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then?  thought 
Dunstan.  People  had  always  said  he  lived  on  moldy 
bread,  on  purpose  to  check  his  appetite.  But  where  15 
could  he  be  at  this  time,  and  on  such  an  evening,  leaving 
his  supper  in  this  stage  of  preparation,  and  his  door 
unfastened?  Dunstan's  own  recent  difficulty  in  making 
his  way  suggested  to  him  that  the  weaver  had  perhaps 
gone  outside  his  cottage  to  fetch  in  fuel,  or  for  some  20 
such  brief  purpose,  and  had  slipped  into  the  Stone-pit. 
That  was  an  interesting  idea  to  Dunston,  carrying  con- 
sequences of  entire  novelty.  If  the  weaver  was  dead, 
who  had  a  right  to  his  money?  Who  would  know  where 
his  money  was  hidden?  Who  would  hnow  that  anybody  25 
had  come  to  taJce  it  away?  He  went  no  farther  into  the 
subtleties  of  evidence:  the  pressing  question,  "Where 
is  the  money?''  now  took  such  entire  possession  of  him 
as  to  make  him  quite  forget  that  the  weaver's  death  was 
not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind,  once  arriving  at  an  infer-  30 
ence  that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely  able  to  retain  the 
impression  that  the  notion  from  which  the  inference 
started  was  purely  problematic.     And  Dunstan's  mind 


74  SILAS  MARNER 

was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  possible  felon  "asually  is. 
There  were  only  three  hiding  places  where  he  had  ever 
heard  of  cottagers'  hoards  being  found:  the  thatch,  the 
bed,  and  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Marner's  cottage  had  no 
5  thatch;  and  Dunstan's  first  act,  after  a  train  of  thought 
made  rapid  by  the  stimulus  of  cupidity,  was  to  go  up 
to  the  bed ;  but  while  he  did  so,  his  eyes  traveled  eagerly 
over  the  floor,  where  the  bricks,  distinct  in  the  fireligh;, 
were  discernible  under  the  sprinkling  of  sand.    But  not 

10  everywhere;  for  there  was  one  spot,  and  one  only,  which 
was  quite  covered  with  sand,  and  sand  showing  the 
marks  of  fingers  which  had  apparently  been  careful  to 
spread  it  over  a  given  space.  It  was  near  the  treadles  of 
the  loom.     In  an  instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot, 

15  swept  away  the  sand  with  his  whip,  and,  inserting  the 
thin  end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that 
they  were  loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks,  and 
saw  what  he  had  no  doubt  was  the  object  of  his  search; 
for  what  could  there  be  but  money  in  those  two  leathern 

20  bags?  And,  from  their  weight,  they  must  be  filled  with 
guineas.  Dunstan  felt  round  the  hole,  to  be  certain 
that  it  held  no  more;  then  hastily  replaced  the  bricks, 
and  spread  the  sand  over  them.  Hardly  more  than 
five  minutes  had  passed  since  he  entered  the  cottage, 

25  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan  like  a  long  while;  and  though 
he  was  without  any  distinct  recognition  of  the  possibility 
that  Marner  might  be  alive,  and  might  re-enter  the 
cottage  at  any  moment,  he  felt  an  undefinable  dread 
laying  hold  on  him  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  bags 

30  in  his  hand.  He  would  hasten  out  into  the  darkness, 
and  then  consider  what  he  should  do  with  the  bags.  He 
closed  the  door  behind  him  immediately,  that  he  might 
shut  in  the  stream  of  light:  a  few  steps  would  be  enough 


SILAS  MARNER  75 

to  carry  him  beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams  from  the 
shutter-chinks  and  the  latch-hole.  The  rain  and  dark- 
ness had  got  thicker,  and  he  was  glad  of  it;  though  it 
was  awkward  walking  with  both  hands  filled,  so  that 
it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along  5 
with  one  of  the  bags.  But  when  he  had  gone  a  yard  or 
two,  he  might  take  his  time.  So  he  stepped  forward 
into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTEE  V 

When  Dnnstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cot- 
tage, Silas  Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  it,  plodding  along  from  the  village  with  a 
sack  thrown  round  his  shoulders  as  an  overcoat,  and 

5  with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand.  His  legs  were  weary, 
but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the  presentiment  of 
change.  The  sense  of  security  more  frequently  springs 
from  habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for  this  reason  it 
often  subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the  conditions  as 

10  might  have  been  expected  to  suggest  alarm.  The  lapse 
of  time  during  which  a  given  event  has  not  happened  is, 
in  this  logic  of  habit,  constantly  alleged  as  a  reason  why 
the  event  should  never  happen,  even  when  the  lapse  of 
time  is  precisely  the  added  condition  which  makes  the 

15  event  imminent.  A  man  will  tell  you  that  he  has 
worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years  unhurt  by  an  accident, 
as  a  reason  why  he  should  apprehend  no  danger,  though 
the  roof  is  beginning  to  sink;  and  it  is  often  observable, 
that  the  older  a  man  gets,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  him 

20  to  retain  a  believing  conception  of  his  own  death.  This 
influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man  whose 
life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner's — who  saw  no  new 
people  and  heard  of  no  new  events  to  keep  alive  in  him 
the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and  the  changeful;  and  it 

25  explains,  simply  enough,  why  his  mind  could  be  at  easC; 
7^ 


SILAS  MARNER  77 

though  he  had  left  his  house  and  his  treasure  more 
defenceless  than  usual.  Silas  was  thinking  with  double 
complacency  of  his  supper:  first,  because  it  would  be 
hot  and  savoury;  and,  secondly,  because  it  would  cost 
him  nothing.  For  the  little  bit  of  pork  was  a  present  5 
from  that  excellent  housewife,  Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter, 
to  whom  he  had  this  day  carried  home  a  handsome  piece 
of  linen;  and  it  was  only  on  occasion  of  a  present  like  this 
that  Silas  indulged  himself  with  roast  meat.  Supper 
was  his  favorite  meal,  because  it  came  at  his  time  of  io 
revelry,  when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold;  when- 
ever he  had  roast  meat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for 
supper.  But  this  evening,  he  had  no  sooner  ingen- 
iously knotted  his  string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork, 
twisted  the  string  according  to  rule  over  his  door  key,  is 
passed  it  through  the  handle,  and  made  it  fast  on  the 
hanger,  than  he  remembered  that  a  piece  of  very  fine 
twine  was  indispensable  to  his  "  setting  up  '^  a  new 
piece  of  work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It 
had  slipped  his  memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr.  20 
Lammeters,  he  had  not  had  to  pass  through  the  vil- 
lage; but  to  lose  time  by  going  on  errands  in  the  morn- 
ing was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  a  nasty  fog  to 
turn  out  into,  but  there  were  things  Silas  loved  better 
than  his  own  comfort;  so,  dra^\^ng  his  pork  to  the  ex-  25 
tremity  of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his 
lantern  and  his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in  ordinary 
weather,  would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes^  errand. 
He  could  not  have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his 
well-knotted  string  and  retarding  his  supper;  it  was  30 
not  worth  his  while  to  make  that  sacrifice.  What  thief 
would  find  his  way  to  the  Stone-pits  on  such  a  night 
as  this?  and  why  should  he  come  on  this  particular 


78  SILAS  MAKNER 

night,  when  he  had  never  come  through  all  the  fifteen: 
years  before?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly 
present  in  Silases  mind;  they  merely  serve  to  represent 
the  vaguely  felt  foundation  of  his  freedom  from  anxiety. 
5  He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his 
errand  was  done:  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short-sighted 
eyes  everything  remained  as  he  had  left  it,  except  that 
the  fire  sent  out  a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He  trod 
about  the  floor  while  putting  by  his  lantern  and  throw- 

10  ing  aside  his  hat  and  sack,  so  as  to  merge  the  marks  of 
Dunstan's  feet  on  the  sand  in  the  marks  of  his  own 
nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved  his  pork  nearer  to  the 
fire,  and  sat  down  to  the  agreeable  business  of  tending 
the  meat  and  warming  himself  at  the  same  timiC. 

15  Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light 
shone  upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and 
meager  form,  would  perhaps  have  understood  the  mix- 
ture of  contemptuous  pity,  dread,  and  suspicion  with 
which  he  was  regarded  by  his  neighbors  in  Kaveloe. 

20  Yet  few  men  could  be  more  harmless  than  poor  Mar- 
ner.  In  his  truthful  simple  soul,  not  even  the  growing 
greed  and  worship  of  gold  could  beget  any  vice  directly 
injurious  to  others.  The  light  of  his  faith  quite  put 
out,  and  his  affections  made  desolate,  he  had  clung  with 

25  all  the  force  of  his  nature  to  his  work  and  his  money; 
and  like  all  objects  to  which  a  man  devotes  himself, 
they  had  fashioned  him  into  correspondence  with  them- 
selves. His  loom,  as  he  wrought  in  it  without  ceasing, 
had  in  its  turn  wrought  on  him,  and  confirmed  more 

30  and  more  the  monotonous  craving  for  its  monotonous 
response.  His  gold,  as  he  hung  over  it  and  saw  it 
grow,  gathered  his  power  of  loving  together  into  a  hard 
isolation  like  its  own. 


SILAS  MARNER  79 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it  would 
be  a  long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew 
out  his  guineas^,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  them 
on  the  table  before  him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast. 
For  joy  is  the  best  of  wine,  and  Silas's  guineas  were  a  5 
golden  wine  of  that  sort. 

I  He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on 
the  floor  near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without 
noticing  any  change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The 
sight  of  the  empty  hole  made  his  heart  leap  violently,  lo 
but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was  gone  could  not  come 
at  once — only  terror,  and  the  eager  effort  to  put  an 
end  to  the  terror.  He  passed  his  trembling  hand  all 
about  the  hole  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his  eyes 
had  deceived  him;  then  he  held  the  candle  in  the  hole  15 
and  examined  it  curiously,  trembling  more  and  more. 
At  last  he  shook  so  violently  that  he  let  fall  the  can- 
dle, and  lifted  his  hands  to  his  head,  trying  to  steady 
himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had  he  put  his  gold 
somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution  last  night,  and  20 
then  forgotten  it?  A  man  falling  into  dark  water  seeks 
a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding  stones;  and  Silas, 
by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false  hopes,  warded  off  the 
moment  of  despair.  He  searched  in  every  corner,  he 
turned  his  bed  over,  and  shook  it,  and  kneaded  it;  he  25 
looked  in  his  brick  oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When 
there  was  no  other  place  to  be  searched,  he  kneeled 
down  again,  and  felt  once  more  all  round  the  hole. 
There  was  no  untried  refuge  left  for  a  moment's  shelter 
from  the  terrible  truth.  dh 

I  ;  Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes 
with  the  prostration  of  thought  under  an  overpowering 
passion:  it  was  that  expectation  of  impossibilities^  that 


80  SILAS  MARKER 

belief  in  contradictory  images,  which  is  still  distinct 
from  madness,  because  it  is  capable  of  being  dissipated 
by  the  external  fact.  Silas  got  up  from  his  knees  trem- 
bling, and  looked  round  at  the  table:  didn^t  the  gold  lie 
5  there  after  all?  The  table  was  bare.  Then  he  turned 
and  looked  behind  him — looked  all  round  his  dwelling, 
seeming  to  strain  his  brown  eyes  after  some  possible 
appearance  of  the  bags,  where  he  had  already  sought 
them  in  vain.    He  could  see  every  object  in  his  cottage 

10  — and  his  gold  was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and 
gave  a  wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desolation.  For 
a  few  moments  after,  he  stood  motionless;  but  the  cry 
had  relieved  him  from  the  first  maddening  pressure  of 

15  the  truth.     He  turned,  and  tottered  toward  his  loom,ll 
and  got  into  the  seat  where  he  worked,  instinctively 
seeking  this  as  the  strongest  assurance  of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished,  and 
the  first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a 

20  thief  began  to  present  itself,  and  he  entertained  it 
eagerly,  because  a  thief  might  be  caught  and  made  to 
restore  the  gold.  The  thought  brought  some  new 
strength  with  it,  and  he  started  from  his  loom  to  the 
door.     As  he  opened  it,  the  rain  beat  in  upon  him,  for 

25  it  was  falling  more  and  more  heavily.  There  were  no 
footsteps  to  be  tracked  on  such  a  night — footsteps? 
When  had  the  thief  come?  During  Silas's  absence  in 
the  daytime  the  door  had  been  locked,  and  there  had 
been  no  marks  of  any  inroad  on  his  return  by  daylight. 

30  And  in  the  evening,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  everything 
was  the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it.  The  sand  and 
bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not  been  moved.  Was  it 
a  thief  who  had  taken  the  bags?  or  was  it  a  cruel 


SILAS   MARNER  81 

power  that  no  hands  could  reach,  which  had  delighted 
in  making  him  a  second  time  desolate?  He  shrank 
from  this  vaguer  dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with  strug- 
gling effort  on  the  robber  with  hands,  who  could  be 
reached  by  hands.  His  thoughts  glanced  at  all  the  5 
neighbors  who  had  made  any  remarks,  or  asked  any 
questions  which  he  might  now  regard  as  a  ground  of 
suspicion.  There  was  Jem  Eodney,  a  known  poacher, 
and  otherwise  disreputable;  he  had  often  met  Marner 
in  his  journeys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said  some-  lo 
thing  jestingly  about  the  weaver^s  money;  nay,  he  had 
once  irritated  Marner,  by  lingering  at  the  fire  when  he 
called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead  of  going  about  his 
business.  Jem  Eodney  was  the  man — there  was  ease 
in  the  thought.  Jem  could  be  found  and  made  to  re-  15 
store  the  money:  Marner  did  not  want  to  punish  him, 
but  only  to  get  back  .his  gold  which  had  gone  from  him, 
and  left  his  soul  like  a  forlorn  traveller  on  an  unknown 
desert.  The  robber  must  be  laid  hold  of.  Marner's 
ideas  of  legal  authority  were  confused,  but  he  felt  that  20 
he  must  go  and  proclaim  his  loss;  and  the  great  people 
in  the  village — the  clergyman,  the  constable,  and  Squire 
Cass — would  make  Jem  Eodney,  or  somebody  else,  de- 
liver up  the  stolen  money.  He  rushed  out  in  the  rain, 
under  the  stimulus  of  this  hope,  forgetting  to  cover  his  25 
head,  not  caring  to  fasten  his  door;  for  he  felt  as  if  he 
had  nothing  left  to  lose.  He  ran  gwiftly  till  want  of 
breath  compelled  him  to  slacken  his  pace  as  he  was 
entering  the  village  at  the  turning  close  to  the  Eain- 
bow.  30 

The  Eainbow,  in  Marner's  view,  was  a  place  of 
luxurious  resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose 
wives  had  superfluous  stores  of  linen;  it  was  the  place 


82  SILAS  MARNER 

where  he  was  likely  to  find  the  powers  and  dignities 
of  Eaveloe,  and  where  he  conld  most  speedily  make 
his  loss  public.  He  lifted  the  latch,  and  turned  into 
the  bright  bar  or  kitchen  on  the  right  hand,  where  the 

5  less  lofty  customers  of  the  house  were  in  the  habit  of 
assembling,  the  parlor  on  the  left  being  reserved  for 
the  more  select  society  in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently 
enjoyed  the  double  pleasure  of  conviviality  and  con- 
descension.   But  the  parlor  was  dark  to-night,  the  chief 

10  personages  who  ornamented  its  circle  being  all  at  Mrs. 
Osgood^s  birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was.  And  in 
consequence  of  this,  the  party  on  the  high-screened 
seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than  usual; 
several  personages,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  ad- 

15  mitted  into  the  parlor  and  enlarged  the  opportunity  of 
hectoring  and  condescension  for  their  betters,  being 
content  this  evening  to  vary  their  enjoyment  by  taking 
their  spirits-and-water  where  they  could  themselves 
hector  and  condescend  in  company  that  called  for  beer. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

The  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of 
animation  when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Kain- 
bow,  had,  as  usual,  been  slow  and  intermittent  when 
the  company  first  assembled.  The  pipes  began  to  be 
puffed  in  a  silence  which  had  an  air  of  severity;  the  5 
more  important  customers,  who  drank  spirits  and  sat 
nearest  the  fire,  staring  at  each  other  as  if  a  bet  were 
depending  on  the  first  man  who  winked;  while  the 
beer  drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fustian  jackets  and  smock- 
frocks,  kept  their  eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their  hands  lo 
across  their  mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were  a 
funereal  duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness.  At 
last,  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  dis- 
position, accustomed  to  stand  aloof  from  human  dif- 
ferences as  those  of  beings  who  were  all  alike  in  need  15 
of  liquor,  broke  silence  by  saying  in  a  doubtful  tone  to 
his  cousin  the  butcher: 

^^  Some  folks  ^ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv 
In  yesterday.  Bob?  " 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was  20 
tiot  disposed  to  answer  rashly.     He  gave  a  few  puffs 
before  he  spat  and  replied,  "And  they  wouldn't  be 
fur  wrong,  John.'' 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as 
severely  as  before.  25 

83 


84  SILAS  MARNER 

"Was  it  a  red  Durham?  ^^  said  the  farrier,  taking 
up  the  thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
minutes. 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
5  looked  at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take  the 
responsibility  of  answering. 

"  Eed  it  was/^  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humored 
husky  treble,  "  and  a  Durham  it  was.^^ 

"  Then  you  needn^t  tell  me  who  you  bought  it  of,^^ 
10  said  the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph;  "  I 
know  who  it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams  o'  this  country- 
side. And  she'd  a  white  star  on  her  brow,  I'll  bet  a 
penny?"  The  farrier  leaned  forward  with  his  hands 
on  his  knees  as  he  put  this  question,  and  his  eyes  twin- 
15  kled  knowingly. 

"  Well;  yes — she  might,"  said  the  butcher  slowly, 
considering  that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmativa 
"  I  don't  say  contrairy." 

"  I  knew  that  very  well,"  said  the  farrier,  throwing 
20  himself  backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly;  "  if 
I  don't  know  Mr.  Lammeter's  cows,  I  should  like  to 
know  who  does — that's  all.  And  as  for  the  cow  you've 
bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain,  I've  been  at  the  drench- 
ing of  her — contradick  me  who  will." 
25  The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's 
conversational  spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

"  I'm  not  for  contradicking  no  man,"  he  said;  "  I'm , 
for  peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting ,  long 
ribs — I'm  for  cutting  'em  short,  myself;  but  /  don't 
30  quarrel  with  'em.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss — and 
anybody  as  was  reasonable,  it  'ud  bring  tears  into  their 
eyes  to  look  at  it." 

"  Well,  it's  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is," 


SILAS  MARNER  85 

pursued  the  farrier  angrily;  ^^  and  it  was  Mr.  Lam- 
meter^s  cow^  else  you  told  a  lie  when  you  said  it  was  a 
red  Durham/^ 

^'  I  tell  no  lies/^  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same 
mild  huskiness  as  before,  "  and  I  eontradick  none — not  5 
if  a  man  was  to  swear  himself  black:  he's  no  meat  o' 
mine,  nor  none  o'  my  bargains.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a 
lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I  say.  Til  stick  to;  but  I'll 
quarrel  wi'  no  man." 

"  No,"  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  look-  lo 
ing  at  the  company  generally;  "  and  p'rhaps  you  aren't 
pig-headed;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  the  cow 
was  a  red  Durham;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say 
she'd  got  a  star  on  her  brow — stick  to  that,  now  you're 
at  it."  15 

^^  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord;  ''  let  the  cow 
alone.  The  truth  lies  atween  you:  you're  both  right 
and  both  wrong,  as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  cow's 
being  Mr.  Lammeter's,  I  say  nothing  to  that;  but  this 
I  say,  as  the  Eainbow's  the  Eainbow.  And  for  the  20 
matter  o'  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  o'  the  Lammeters, 
you  know  the  most  upo'  that  head,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?  You 
remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father  come  into 
these  parts,  and  took  the  Warrens  ?  " 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish  clerk,  the  latter  of  25 
which  functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him 
to  share  with  a  small-featured  young  man  who  sat  op- 
posite him,  held  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and  twirled 
his  thumbs  with  an  air  of  complacency,  slightly  sea- 
soned with  criticism.  He  smiled  pityingly,  in  answer  30 
to  the  landlord's  appeal,  and  said — 

^^  Ay,  ay;  I  know,  I  know;  but  I  let  other  folks  talk. 
I've  laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns.     Ask 


86  SILAS  MARNER 

them  as  have  been  to  school  at  Tarley:  they've  learned 
pernonncing;  that^s  come  up  since  my  day/^ 

"If  you're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey/'  said  the 
deputy  clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  "  Fm 
5  nowise  a  man  to  speak  out  of  my  place.    As  the  psalm 
says — 

*  I  know  what's  right,  nor  only  so, 
But  also  practise  what  I  know.'  '• 

"Well,  then,  I  wish  you'd  keep  hold  o'  the  tune 

10  when  it's  set  for  you;  if  you're  for  practising,  I  wish 
you'd  ^Tdictise  that,"  said  -a  large,  jocose-looking  man, 
an  excellent  wheelwright  in  his  week-day  capacity,  but 
on  Sundays  leader  of  the  choir.  He  winked,  as  he 
spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who  were  known  officially 

15  as  the  "  bassoon  "  and  the  "  key-bugle,"  in  the  confi- 
dence that  he  was  expressing  the  sense  of  the  musical 
profession  in  Eaveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy  clerk,  who  shared  the  un- 
popularity common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red,  but 

20  replied,  with  careful  moderation:  "  Mr.  Winthrop,  if 
you'll  bring  me  any  proof  as  I'm  in  the  wrong,  I'm 
not  the  man  to  say  I  won't  alter.  But  there's  people 
set  up  their  own  ears  for  a  standard,  and  expect  the 
whole  choir  to  follow  'em.     There  may  be  two  opin- 

85  ions,  I  hope." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satis- 
fied with  this  attack  on  youthful  presumption;  "  you're 
right  there,  Tookey.  There's  allays  two  'pinions:  there's 
the  'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen,  and  there's  the  'pinion 

30  other  folks  have  on  him.  There'd  be  two  'pinions  about 
a  cracked  bell,  if  the  bell  could  hear  itself." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  poor  Tookey,  serious  amid 
the  general  laughter,  ^^  I  undertook  to  partially  fill  up 


SILAS  MARNER  87 

the  office  of  parish  clerk  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp's  desire, 
whenever  your  infirmities  should  make  you  unfitting; 
and  it's  one  of  the  rights  thereof  to  sing  in  the  choir 
— else  why  have  you  done  the  same  yourself? '^ 

"  Ah !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two  folks/'  5 
said  Ben  Winthrop.  "  The  old  gentleman's  got  a  gift. 
Why,  the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to  take  a  glass,  only 
to  hear  him  sing  the  '  Eed  Kovier ' ;  didn't  he,  Mr. 
Macey?  It's  a  nat'ral  gift.  There's  my  little  lad  Aaron, 
he's  got  a  gift — he  can  sing  a  tune  off  straight,  like  a  lo 
throstle.  But  as  for  you.  Master  Tookey,  you'd  better 
stick  to  your  '  Amens ' :  your  voice  is  well  enough  when 
you  keep  it  up  in  your.  nose.  It's  your  inside  as  isn't 
right  made  for  music:  it's  no  better  nor  a  hollow  stalk." 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most  15 
piquant  form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Eainbow, 
and  Ben  Winthrop's  insult  was  felt  by  everybody  to 
have  capped  Mr.  Macey's  epigram. 

"  I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Tookey, 
unable  to  keep  cool  any  longer.    "  There's  a  consperacy  20 
to  turn  me  out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  shouldn't  share  the 
Christmas  money — that's  where  it  is.    But  I  shall  speak 
to  Mr.  Crackenthorp;  I'll  not  be  put  upon  by  no  man." 

"Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.     "We'll 
pay  you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it — that's  what  we'll  25 
do.     There's  things  folks  'ud  pay  to  be  rid  on,  besides 
varmin." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that  pay- 
ing people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle  dangerous 
to  society;  "  a  joke's  a  joke.  We're  all  good  friends  ?o 
here,  I  hope.  We  must  give  and  take.  You're  both 
right  and  you're  both  wrong,  as  I  say. .  I  agree  wi'  Mr. 
Macey  here,  as  there's  two  opinions;  and  if  mine  was 


88  SILAS  MARNER 

asked,  I  should  say  they're  both  right.  Tookey's  right 
and  Winthrop's  right,  and  they've  only  got  to  split  the 
difference  and  make  themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in 
i>  some  contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no 
ear  for  music  himself,  and  never  went  to  church,  as 
being  of  the  medical  profession,  and  likely  to  be  in 
requisition  for  delicate  cows.  But  the  butcher,  having 
music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with  a  divided  desire  for 

10  Tookey's  defeat,  and  for  the  preservation  of  the  peace. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord's 

conciliatory  view,  "we're  fond  of  our  old  clerk;  it's 

nat'ral,  and  him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a 

brother  as  is  known  for  the  first  fiddler  in  this  country- 

15  side.  Eh,  it's  a  pity  but  what  Solomon  lived  in  our 
village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune  when  we  liked;  eh, 
Mr.  Macey?  I'd  keep  him  in  liver  and  lights  for  noth- 
ing— that  I  would." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  com- 

20  placency;  "  our  family's  been  known  for  musicianers 
as  far  back  as  anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things  are 
dying  out,  as  I  tell  Solomon  every  time  he  comes  round; 
there's  no  voices  like  what  there  used  to  be,  and  there's 
nobody  remembers  what  we  remember,  if  it  isn't  the  old 

25  crows." 

"Ay,  you  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's 
father  come  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey?" 
said  the  landlord. 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 

30  now  gone  through  that  complimentary  process  neces- 
sary to  bring  him  up  to  the  point  of  narration;  "  and  a 
fine  old  gentleman  he  was — as  fine,  and  finer  nor  the 
Mr.  LammeteT  as  now  is.     He  came  from  a  bit  north- 


SILAS  MARNER  89 

'ard,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make  out.  But  there's  no- 
body rightly  knows  about  those  parts:  only  it  couldn't 
be  far  north'ard,  nor  much  different  from  this  country, 
for  he  brought  a  fine  breed  o'  sheep  with  him,  so  there 
must  be  pastures  there,  and  everything  reasonable.  We  5 
beared  tell  as  he'd  sold  his  own  land  to  come  and  take 
the  Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd  for  a  man  as  had 
land  of  his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a  farm  in  a  strange 
place.  But  they  said  it  was  along  of  his  wife's  dying; 
though  there's  reasons  in  things  as  nobody  knows  on —  lo 
that's  pretty  much  what  I've  made  out;  yet  some  folks 
are  so  wise,  they'll  find  you  fifty  reasons  straight  off, 
and  all  the  while  the  real  reason's  winking  at  'em  in  the 
corner,  and  they  niver  see  't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon 
seen  as  we'd  got  a  new  parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  15 
and  customs  o'  things,  and  kep'  a  good  house,  and  was 
well  looked  on  by  everybody.  And  the  young  man — 
that's  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is,  for  he'd  niver  a 
sister — soon  begun  to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that's  the 
sister  o'  the  Mr.  Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine,  handsome  20 
lass  she  was — eh,  you  can't  think — they  pretend  this 
young  lass  is  like  her,  but  that's  the  way  wi'  people  as 
don't  know  what  come  before  'em.  I  should  know,  for 
I  helped  the  old  rector,  Mr.  Drumlow  as  was — I  helped 
him  marry  'em."  25 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused;  he  always  gave  his  narra- 
tive in  installments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  accord- 
ing to  precedent. 

"Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  thing  happened,  didn't  it, 
Mr.  Macey,  so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that  30 
marriage?"  said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  tone. 

"  I  should  think  there  did — a  very  partic'lar  thing," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.     "For  Mr.  Drum- 


90  SILAS  MARNER 

low— poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though 
he'd  got  a  bit  confused  in  his  head,  what  wi'  age  and 
wi'  taking  a  drop  o'  summat  warm  when  the  service 
come  of  a  cold  morning.     And  yonng  Mr.  Lammeter, 

5  he'd  have  no  way  but  he  must  be  married  in  Janiwary., 
which,  to  be  sure,  's  a  unreasonable  time  to  be  married 
in,  for  it  isn't  like  a  christening  or  a  burying,  as  you 
can't  help;  and  so  Mr.  Drumlow — poor  old  gentleman, 
I  was  fond  on  him — but  when  he  come  to  put  the  ques- 

10  tions,  he  put  'em  by  the  rule  o'  contrairy,  like,  and  he 
says,  ^  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded  wife?' 
says  he,  and  then  he  says,  '  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman 
to  thy  wedded  husband?  '  says  he.  But  the  partic'larest 
thing  of  all  is,  as  nobody  took  any  notice  on  it  but  me, 

15  and  they  answered  straight  off  '  Yes,'  like  as  if  it  had 
been  me  saying  ^  Amen  ^  i'  the  right  place,  without  lis- 
tening to  what  went  before." 

"  But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 
didn't  you,  Mr.  Macey?    You  were  live  enough,  eh?" 

20  said  the  butcher. 

"Lor'  bless  you!"  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and 
smiling  in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearer's  imagi- 
nation; "  why,  I  was  all  of  a  tremble;  it  was  as  if  I'd 
been  a  coat  pulled  by  the  two  tails,  like;  for  I  couldn't 

25  stop  the  parson,  I  couldn't  take  upon  me  to  do  that; 
and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says,  ^  Suppose  they  shouldn't 
be  fast  married,  'cause  the  words  are  contrairy?'  and 
my  head  went  working  like  a  mill,  for  I  was  allays  un- 
common for  turning  things  over  and  seeing  all  round 

30  'em;  and  I  says  to  myself,  '  Is't  the  meanin'  or  the  words 
as  makes  folks  fast  i'  wedlock? '  For  the  parson  meant 
right,  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  meant  right.  But 
then,  when  I  come  to  think  on  it,  meanin'  goes  but  a 


SILAS  MARKER  91 

little  way  i'  most  things,  for  you  may  mean  to  stick 
things  together  and  your  glue  may  be  bad,  and  then 
where  are  you  ?  And  so  I  says  to  mysen,  '  It  isn't  the 
meanin",  it's  the  glue/  And  I  was  worreted  as  if  Fd 
got  three  bells  to  pull  at  once,  when  we  went  into  the  5 
vestry,  and  they  begun  to  sign  their  names.  But 
Where's  the  use  o'  talking? — you  can't  think  what  goes 
on  in  a  'cute  man's  inside." 

''But  you  held  in  for  all  that,   didn't  you,  Mr. 
Macey?  "  said  the  landlord.  lo 

"Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi'  Mr. 
Drumlow,  and  then  I  out  wi'  everything,  but  respect- 
ful, as  I  allays  did.  And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he 
says,  '  Pooh,  pooh,  Macey,  make  yourself  easy,'  he  says; 
'  it's  neither  the  meaning  nor  the  words — it's  the  15 
regesteT  does  it — that's  the  glue.'  So  you  see  he  set- 
tled it  easy;  for  parsons  and  doctors  know  everything 
by  heart,  like,  so  as  they  aren't  worreted  wi'  thinking 
what's  the  rights  and  wrongs  o'  things,  as  I'n  been 
many  and  many's  the  time.  And  sure  enough  the  wed-  20 
ding  turned  out  all  right,  on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lammeter — 
that's  Miss  Osgood  as  was — died  afore  the  lasses  was 
growed  up;  but  for  prosperity  and  everything  respect- 
able, there's  no  family  more  looked  on." 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey's  audience  had  heard  this  25 
story  many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had 
been  a  favorite  tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puffing 
of  the  pipes  was  momentarily  suspended,  that  the  lis- 
teners might  give  their  whole  minds  to  the  expected 
words.  But  there  was  more  to  come;  and  Mr.  Snell,  30 
the  landlord,  duly  put  the  leading  question. 

"Why,    old   Mr.    Lammeter   had    a   pretty   fortin, 
didn't  they  say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts?'' 


92  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Well,  yes/'  said  Mr.  Maeey;  ''  but  I  dare  say  it'a 
as  much  as  this  Mr.  Lammeter's  done  to  keep  it  whole. 
For  there  was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich  on 
the  Warrens:  though  he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's  what 

5  they  call  Charity  Land." 

'^  Ay,  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you  how 
it  come  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?"  said 
the  butcher. 

"How  should  they?"  said  the  old  clerk,  with  some 

10  contempt.  "  Why,  my  grandfather  made  the  grooms' 
livery  for  that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big 
stables  at  the  Warrens.  Why,  they're  stables  four  times 
as  big  as  Squire  Cass's,  for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but 
bosses  and  hunting.  Cliff  didn't — a  Lunnon  tailor,  some 

15  folks  said,  as  had  gone  mad  wi'  cheating.  For  he 
couldn't  ride;  lor'  bless  you!  they  said  he'd  got  no  more 
grip  o'  the  boss  than  if  his  legs  had  been  cross-sticks: 
my  grandfather  beared  old  Squire  Cass  say  so  many  and 
many  a  time.     But  ride  he  would,  as  if  Old  Harry  had 

20  been  a-driving  him;  and  he'd  a  son,  a  lad  o'  sixteen 
and  nothing  would  his  father  have  him  do,  but  he  must 
ride  and  ride — though  the  lad  was  frighted,  they  said. 
And  it  was  a  common  saying  as  the  father  wanted  to 
ride  the  tailor  out  o'  the  lad,  and  make  a  gentleman  on 

25  him — not  but  what  Fm  a  tailor  myself,  but  in  respect 
as  God  made  me  such,  I'm  proud  on  it,  for  '  Macey, 
Tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our  door  since  afore  the 
Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the  shillings.  But  Cliff,  he 
was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a  tailor,  and  he  was  sore 

30  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laughed  at,  and  nobody  o'  the 
gentlefolks  hereabout  could  abide  him.     Howsomever, 

28.  Queen's  heads.    Queen  Anne'* 


SILAS  MARNER  93 

the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and  died,  and  the  father  didn't 
live  long  after  him,  for  he  got  queerer  nor  ever,  and 
they  said  he  used  to  go  out  f  the  dead  o'  the  night, 
wF  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot 
o'  lights  burning,  for  he  got  as  he  couldn^t  sleep;  and  ^ 
there  he'd  stand,  cracking  his  whip  and  looking  at  his 
bosses;  and  they  said  it  was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  didn't 
get  burned  down  wi'  the  poor  dumb  creaturs  in  'em. 
But  at  last  he  died  raving,  and  they  found  as  he'd  left 
all  his  property.  Warrens  and  all,  to  a  Lunnon  Charity,  10 
and  that's  how  the  Warrens  come  to  be  Charity  Land; 
though,  as  for  the  stables,  Mr.  Lammeter  never  uses 
'em — they're  out  o'  all  charicter — lor'  bless  you!  if  you 
was  to  set  the  doors  a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound  like 
thunder  half  o'er  the  parish."  i-* 

'^  Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than 
what  folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?"  said  the 
landlord. 

"Ay,  ay;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that's  all," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "  and  then  make  20 
believe,  if  you  like,  as  you  didn't  see  lights  i'  the  stables, 
nor  hear  the  stamping  0'  the  bosses,  nor  the  cracking 
0'  the  whips,  and  howling,  too,  if  it's  tow'rt  daybreak. 
^  ClifE's  Holiday '  has  been  the  name  of  it  ever  sin'  I 
were  a  boy;  that's  to  say,  some  said  as  it  v/as  the  holi-  26 
day  Old  Harry  gev  him  from  roasting,  like.  That's 
what  my  father  told  me,  and  he  was  a  reasonable  man, 
though  there's  folks  nowadays  know  what  happened 
afore  they  were  born  better  nor  they  know  their  own 
business."  ^ 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that, eh  Dowlas?"  said  the  land- 
lord, turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with  impa- 
tience for  his  cue.    "  There's  a  nut  for  you  to  crack." 


94  SILAS  MARNER 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company, 
and  was  prond  of  his  position. 

''  Say?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut 
his  eyes  to  look  at  a  finger  post.  I  say,  as  Fm  ready  to 
5  wager  any  man  ten  pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  wi'  me  any 
dry  night  in  the  pasture  before  the  Warren  stables,  as 
we  shall  neither  see  lights  nor  hear  noises,  if  it  isn't  the 
blowing  of  our  own  noses.  That's  what  I  say,  and  I've 
said  it  many  a  time;  but  there's  nobody  'ull  venture  a 
10  ten-pun'  note  on  their  ghos'es  as  they  make  so  sure  of.^' 

"Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  "  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as  he 
wouldn't  catch  the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to  's  neck 
in  the  pool  of  a  frosty  night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun  for  a 
15  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he'd  catch  the  rheumatise.  Folks 
as  believe  in  Cliffs  Holiday  aren't  a-going  to  ventur 
near  it  for  a  matter  o'  ten  pound." 

"  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his 
20  thumbs  together,  "  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet — let  him 
go  and  stan'  by  himself — there's  nobody  'ull  hinder 
him;  and  then  he  can  let  the  parish'ners  know  if  they're 
wrong." 

"  Thank  you!  I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  farrier, 
25  with  a  snort  of  scorn.  "  If  folks  are  fools,  it's  no  busi- 
ness o'  mine.  /  don't  want  to  make  out  the  truth  about 
ghos'es:  I  know  it  a'ready.  But  I'm  not  against  a  bet 
— everything  fair  and  open.  Let  any  man  bet  me  ten 
pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff's  Holiday,  and  I'll  go  and 
so  stand  by  myself.  I  want  no  company.  I'd  as  lief  do 
it  as  I'd  fill  this  pipe." 

"Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you.  Dowlas,  and  see  you 
do  it?    That's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 


SILAS  MARNER  95 

"IvTo  fair  bet?^^  replied  Mr.  Dowlas  angrily.  "I 
should  like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want  to 
bet  unfair.  Come  now.  Master  Lundy,  I  should  like 
to  hear  you  say  it.^^ 

"  Very  like  you  would/'  said  the  butcher.     "  But  5 
it's  no  business  o'  mine.     You're  none  o'  my  bargains, 
and  I  aren't  a-going  to  try  and  'bate  your  price.     If- 
anybody'll  bid  for  you  at  your  own  vallying,  let  him. 
I'm  for  peace  and  quietness,  I  am." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you  lo 
hold  a  stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrier.     "  But  I'm 
afraid  o'  neither  man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay 
a  fair  bet.    I  aren't  a  turn-tail  cur." 

''  Ay,  but  there's  this  in  it.  Dowlas,"  said  the  land- 
lord, speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candor  and  tolerance.  15 
"  There's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can't  see  ghos'es, 
not  if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff  before  'em. 
And  there's  reason  i'  that.  For  there's  my  wife,  now, 
can't  smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strongest  o'  cheese  under 
her  nose.  I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself,  but  then  I  says  20 
to  myself,  ^  Very  like  I  haven't  got  the  smell  for  'em.' 
I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrairi- 
ways.  And  so,  I'm  for  holding  with  both  sides;  for,  as 
I  say,  the  truth  lies  between  'em.  And  if  Dowlas  was 
to  go  and  stand,  and  say  he'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  25 
Cliff's  Holiday  all  the  night  through,  I'd  back  him; 
and  if  anybody  said  as  Cliff's  Holiday  was  certain  sure, 
for  all  that,  I'd  back  Mm  too.  For  the  smell's  what  I 
go  by." 

The  landlord's  analogical  argument  was  not  well  30 
received  by  the  farrier — a  man  intensely  opposed  to 
compromise. 

"  Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with 


96  SILAS  MARNER 

refreshed  irritation;  ^^  what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with 
it?  Did  ever  a  ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye?  That's 
what  I  should  like  to  know.  If  ghos'es  want  me  to  be- 
lieve in  'em,  let  'em  leave  off  skulking  i'  the  dark  and  i' 

S  lone  places — let  'em  come  where  there's  company  and 
candles." 

"  As  if  ghos'es  'ud  want  to  be  believed  in  by  any- 
body so  ignirant ! "  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at 
the  farrier's  crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  con- 

10  ditions  of  ghostly  phenomena. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

Yet  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  he  some  evi- 
dence that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposi- 
tion than  Mr.  Macey  attributed  to  them,  for  the  pale, 
thin  figure  of  Silas  Marner  was  suddenly  seen  standing 
in  the  warm  light,  uttering  no  word,  but  looking  round  5 
at  the  company  with  his  strange  unearthly  eyes.  The 
long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous  movement,  like  the  an- 
tennae of  startled  insects,  and  every  man  present,  not 
excepting  even  the  skeptical  farrier,  had  an  impression 
that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner  in  the  flesh,  but  an  appari-  lo 
tion;  for  the  door  by  which  Silas  had  entered  was  hid- 
den by  the  high-screened  seats,  and  no  one  had  noticed 
his  approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a  long  way  off  the 
ghost,  might  be  supposed  to  have  felt  an  argumentative 
triumph,  which  would  tend  to  neutralize  his  share  of  the  is 
general  alarm.  Had  he  not  always  said  that  when  Silas 
Marner  was  in  that  strange  trance  of  his,  his  soul  went 
loose  from  his  body?  Here  was  the  demonstration;  never- 
theless, on  the  whole,  he  would  have  been  as  well  con- 
tented without  it.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  dead  20 
silence,  Marner^s  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not  allow- 
ing him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual  sense 
that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to  all  company, 
and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his  unbroken  neutral- 
ity, at  last  took  on  himself  the  task  of  adjuring  the  ghost.  25 

97 


98  SILAS  MARKER 

"Master  Marner/^  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
"what's  lacking  to  yon?    What's  your  business  here?'' 

"Eobbed!"  said  Silas  gaspingly.  "I've  been 
robbed!  I  want  the  constable — and  the  Justice — and 
5  Squire  Cass — and  Mr.  Crackenthorp." 

"  Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Eodney,"  said  the  landlord^, 
the  idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding;  "  he's  off  his  head,  I 
doubt.    He's  wet  through." 

Jem  Eodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat  con- 
10  veniently  near  Marner's  standing  place;  but  he  declined 
to  give  his  services. 

"  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if 
you've  a  mind,"  said  Jem  rather  sullenly.  "  He's  been 
robbed,  and  murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,"  he  added, 
15  in  a  muttering  tone. 

"  Jem  Eodney! "  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his 
strange  eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  ye  want  wi'  me?" 
said  Jem,  trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking 
20  can  as  a  defensive  weapon. 

"  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,  clasping 

his  hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to  a  cry, 

"  give  it  me  back — and  I  won't  meddle  with  you.     I 

won't  set  the  constable  on  you.     Give  it  me  back,  and 

25  I'll  let  you — r]l  let  you  have  a  guinea." 

"  Me  stole  your  money!  "  said  Jem  angrily.  "  I'll 
pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my  stealing 
your  money." 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord, 
30  now  rising  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the  shoul- 
der, "if  you've  got  any  information  to  lay,  speak  it 
out  sensible,  and  show  as  you're  in  your  right  mind,  if 
you  expect  anybody  to  listen  to  you.     You're  as  wet 


SILAS  MARNER  99 

as  a  drownded  rat.     Sit  down  and  dry  yourself,  and 
speak  straiglitforrard/^ 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man/^  said  the  farrier,  who  began 
to  feel  that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  him- 
self and  the  occasion.  "  Let^s  have  no  more  staring  5  . 
and  screaming,  else  we'll  have  you  strapped  for  a  mad- 
man. That  was  why  I  didn't  speak  at  the  first — thinks 
I,  the  man's  run  mad," 

"  Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,"  said  several  voices 
at  once,  well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  re-  lo 
mained  still  an  open  question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat,  and 
then  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  one  else, 
in  the  center  of  the  circle,  and  in  the  direct  rays  of 
the  fire.  The  weaver,  too  feeble  to  have  any  distinct  15 
purpose  beyond  that  of  getting  help  to  recover  his 
money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The  transient  fears  of 
the  company  were  now  forgotten  in  their  strong  curi- 
osity, and  all  faces  were  turned  toward  Silas,  when  the 
landlord,  having  seated  himself  again,  said —  20 

"  I^ow,  then.  Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got 
to  say — as  you've  been  robbed?    Speak  out." 

"  He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed 
him,"  cried  Jem  Eodney  hastily.     "  What  could  I  ha' 
done  with  his^money?    I  could  as  easy  steal  the  parson's  25 
surplice,  and  wear  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what  he's 
got  to  say,"  said  the  landlord.  "  Now,  then.  Master 
Marner." 

Silas  now  told  his  story  under  frequent  questioning,  30 
as  the  mysterious  character  of  the  robbery  became  evi- 
dent. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trouble 


100  SILAS  MARNEE, 

to  his  Eaveloe  neighbors,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth  of  a 
hearth  not  his  own,  and  feeling  the  presence  of  faces 
and  voices  which  were  his  nearest  promise  of  help,  had  . 
doubtless  its  influence  on  Marner,  in  spite  of  his  pasHaj 

«  sionate  preoccupation  with  his  loss.  Our  consciousness 
rarely  registers  the  beginning  of  a  growth  within  us 
any  more  than  without  us:  there  have  been  many  cir- 
culations of  the  sap  before  we  detect  the  smallest  sign 
of  the  bud. 

10  The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  firsr 
listened  to  him  gradually  melted  away  before  the  con- 
vincing simplicity  of  his  distress:  it  was  impossible  for 
the  neighbors  to  doubt  that  Marner  was  telling  the 
truth,  not  because  they  were  capable  of  arguing  at  once 

15  from  the  nature  of  his  statements  to  the  absence  of  any 
motive  for  making  them  falsely,  but  because,  as  Mr. 
Macey  observed,  "  Folks  as  had  the  devil  to  back  ^em 
were  not  likely  to  be  so  mushed  ^^  as  poor  Silas  was. 
Rather,  from  the  strange  fact  that  the  robber  had  left 

20  no  traces,  and  had  happened  to  know  the  nick  of  time, 
utterly  incalculable  by  mortal  agents,  when  Silas  would 
go  away  from  home  without  locking  his  door,  the  more 
probable  conclusion  seemed  to  be,  that  his  disreputable 
intimacy  in  that  quarter,  if  it  ever  existed,  had  been 

25  broken  up,  and  that,  in  consequence,  this  ill  turn  had 
been  done  to  Marner  by  somebody  it  was  quite  in  vain 
to  set  the  constable  after.  Why  this  preternatural  felon 
should  be  obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was  left  unlocked 
was  a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 

30  "  It  isn^t  Jem  Rodney  as  has  done  this  work.  Master 
Marner,^^  said  the  landlord.  "  You  mustn^t  be  a-casting 
your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit  of  a  reck- 
oning against  Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or  so,  if 


SILAS -MARNER  IQl 


anybody  was  bound  to  keep  their  eyes  staring  open, 
and  niver  to  wink;  but  Jem's  been  a-sitting  here  drink- 
ing his  can,  like  the  decentest  man  i'  the  parish,  since 
before  you  left  your  house.  Master  Marner,  by  your  own 
account/^  5 

"  Ay,  ay,^^  said  Mr.  Macey,  "  let's  have  no  accusing 
o'  the  innicent.  That  isn't  the  law.  There  must  be 
folks  to  swear  again'  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta'en  up. 
Let's  have  no  accusing  o'  the  innicent.  Master  Marner.'^ 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it  lo 
could  not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  With  a  move- 
ment of  compunction,  as  new  and  strange  to  him  as 
everything  else  within  the  last  hour,  he  started  from 
his  chair  and  went  close  up  to  Jem,  looking  at  him  as 
if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  the  expression  in  his  15 
face. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  said;  "  yes,  yes — I  ought  to 
have  thought.  There's  nothing  to  witness  against  you, 
Jem.  Only  you'd  been  into  my  house  oftener  than  any- 
body else,  and  so  you  came  into  my  head.  I  don't  ac-  20 
cuse  you — I  won't  accuse  anybody — only,"  he  added, 
lifting  up  his  hands  to  his  head,  and  turning  away  with 
bewildered  misery,  "  I  try — I  try  to  think  where  my 
guineas  can  be." 

"  Ay,  ay,  they're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough  to  25 
melt  'em,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"  Tchuh! "  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked, 
with  a  cross-examining  air,  "How  much  money  might 
there  be  in  the  bags.  Master  Marner?  " 

"  Two  hundred  and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve  and  30 
sixpence,  last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said  Silas,  seat- 
ing himself  again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Pooh !   why,   they'd  be   none   so  heavy  to   carry. 


102  SILAS  MARNER 

Some  tramp's  been  in,  that's  all;  and  as  for  the  no 
footmarks,  and  the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right 
— why,  your  eyes  are  pretty  much  like  a  insect's,  Mas- 
ter Marner;  they're  obliged  to  look  so  close,  you  can't 

5  see  much  at  a  time.  It's  my  opinion  as,  if  I'd  been 
you,  or  you'd  been  me — for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing 
— you  wouldn't  have  thought  you'd  found  everything 
as  you  left  it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sen- 
siblest  o'  the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master 

10  Kench,  the  constable's — he's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that 
much — and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity; 
for  that's  the  law,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  'ull  take 
upon  him  to  contradick  me  there.  It  isn't  much  of  a 
walk  to  Kench's;  and  then,  if  it's  me  as  is  deppity,  I'll 

15  go  back  with  you.  Master  Marner,  and  examine  your 
premises;  and  if  anybody's  got  any  fault  to  find  with 
that,  I'll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a 
man." 

By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  re-estab- 

20  lished  his  self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence 
to  hear  himself  named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sen- 
sible men. 

'^  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said  the 
landlord,  who  also  considered  himself  personally  con- 

25  cerned  in  this  proposition.  "  Why,  it  rains  heavy  still," 
he  said,  returning  from  the  door. 

^^Well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain," 
said  the  farrier.  "  For  it'll  look  bad  when  Justice 
Malam  hears  as  respectable  men  like  us  had  a  infor- 

30  mation  laid  before  'em  and  took  no  steps." 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after  tak- 
ing the  sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a 
small  ceremony  known  in  high  ecclesiastical  life  as  the 


SILAS  MARNER  103 

nolo  episcopari,  he  consented  to  take  on  himself  the 
chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench^s.  But  to  the  farrier's 
strong  disgust;,  Mr.  Macey  now  started  an  objection  to 
his  proposing  himself  as  a  deputy  constable;  for  that 
oracular  old  gentleman^,  claiming  to  know  the  law,  5 
stated,  as  a  fact  delivered  to  him  by  his  father,  that 
no  doctor  could  be  a  constable. 

"  And  you're  a  doctor^  I  reckon,  though  you're  only 
a  cow  doctor — for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a  hoss- 
fly,"  concluded  Mr.  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own  lo 
^^  'cuteness." 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being 
of  course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor, 
but  contending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if 
he  liked — the  law  meant,  he  needn't  be  one  if  he  didn't  15 
like.  Mr.  Macey  thought  this  was  nonsense,  since  the 
law  was  not  likely  to  be  fonder  of  doctors  than  of  other 
folks.  Moreover,  if  it  was  in  the  nature  of  doctors  more 
than  of  other  men  not  to  like  being  constables,  how 
came  Mr.  Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that  ca-  20 
pacity? 

"7  don't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  far- 
rier, driven  into^a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning; 
"  and  there's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the 
truth.  But  if  there's  to  be  any  jealousy  and  envying  25 
about  going  to  Kench's  in  the  rain,  let  them  go  as  like 
it — you  won't  get  me  to  go,  I  can  tell  you." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dispute 
was  accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as  a 
second  person  disinclined  to  act  ofiicially;  and  so  poor  so 

1.  nolo  episcopari  (I  do  not  wisli  to  be  a  bishop),  a  formula  occur' 
ring  in  the  consecration  of  a  bishop.  In  common  proverbial  use,  a  for- 
mula of  humility  assumed  or  true. 


104  SILAS  MARNER 

Silas^  furnished  with  some  old  coverings,  turned  out 
with  his  two  companions  into  the  rain  again,  thinking 
of  the  long  night  hours  before  him,  not  as  those  do 
who  long  to  rest,  but  as  those  who  expect  to  ''  watch  for 
6  the  morning/^ 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Whex  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's 
party  at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn 
that  Dunsey  had  not  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had  not 
sold  Wildfire,  and  was  waiting  for  another  chance — per- 
haps, on  that  foggy  afternoon,  he  had  preferred  hous-  5 
ing  himself  at  the  Red  Lion  at  Batherley  for  the  night, 
if  the  run  had  kept  him  in  that  neighborhood;  for  he 
was  not  likely  to  feel  much  concern  about  leaving  his 
brother  in  suspense.  Godfrey's  mind  was  too  full  of 
Nancy  Lammeter's  looks  and  behavior,  too  full  of  the  lo 
exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot,  which  the  sight 
of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for  him  to  give  much 
thought  to  Wildfire  or  to  the  probabilities  of  Dunstan's 
conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited  15 
by  the  story  of  the  robbery,  and  Godfrey,  like  every 
one  else,  was  occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing  news 
about  it,  and  in  visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The  rain  had 
washed  away  all  possibility  of  distinguishing  footmarks, 
but  a  close  investigation  of  the  spot  had  disclosed,  in  the  20 
direction  opposite  to  the  village,  a  tinder-box,  with  a 
flint  and  steel,  half  sunk  in  the  mud.  It  was  not  Silas's 
tinder-box,  for  the  only  one  he  had  ever  had  was  still 
standing  on  his  shelf;  and  the  inference  generally  ac- 
cepted was,  that  the  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  was  some-  25 

105 


106  SILAS  MARNER 

how  connected  with  the  robbery.  A  small  minority 
shook  their  heads,  and  intimated  their  opinion  that  it 
was  not  a  robbery  to  have  much  light  thrown  on  it  by 
tinder-boxes,  that  Master  Marner's  tale  had  a  queer  look 
5  with  it,  and  that  such  things  had  been  known  as  a  man's 
doing  himself  a  mischief,  and  then  setting  the  justice 
to  look  for  the  doer.  But  when  questioned  closely  as  to 
their  grounds  for  this  opinion,  and  what  Master  Marner 
had  to  gain  by  such  false  pretenses,  they  only  shook 

10  their  heads  as  before,  and  observed  that  there  was  no 
knowing  what  some  folks  counted  gain;  moreover,  thai 
everybody  had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions,  grounds 
or  no  grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as  everybody  knew, 
was  partly  crazy.     Mr.  Macey,  though  he  joined  in  the 

15  defense  of  Marner  against  all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also 

pooh-poohed  the  tinder-box;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as 

:  a   rather   impious   suggestion,   tending   to   imply   that 

everything  must  be  done  by  human  hands,  and  that 

there  was  no  power  which  could  make  away  with  the 

20  guineas  without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless,  he 
turned  round  rather  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when  the 
zealous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view  of  the  case 
peculiarly  suited  to  a  parish  clerk,  carried  it  still  fur- 
ther, and  doubted  whether  it  was  right  to  inquire  into 

25  a  robbery  at  all  when  the  circumstances  were  so  mys- 
terious. 

"  As  if,^^  concluded  Mr.  Tookey — "  as  if  there  was^ 
nothing  but  what  could  be  made  out  by  justices  and 
constables.^^ 

30  "Now,  don't  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark,. 
Tookey/'  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside  ad- 
monishingly.  "  That's  what  you're  allays  at;  if  I  throw 
a  stone  and  hit,  vou  think  there's  summat  better  than 


SILAS  MARNEE  107 

Mtting,  and  you  try  to  throw  a  stone  beyond.  What 
I  said  was  against  the  tinder-box;  I  said  nothing  against 
justices  and  constables,  for  they^re  o^  King  George's 
making,  and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  in  a  parish 
office  to  fly  out  again'  King  George."  5 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  among  the 
group  outside  the  Rainbow  a  higher  consultation  was 
being  carried  on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr. 
Crackenthorp,  the  rector,  assisted  by  Squire  Cass  and 
other  substantial  parishioners.  It  had  just  occurred  10 
to  ^Ir.  Snell,  the  landlord — he  being,  as  he  observed, 
^  man  accustomed  to  put  two  and  two  together — to 
connect  with  the  tinder-box  which,  as  deputy  constable, 
lie  himself  had  had  the  honorable  distinction  of  finding, 
•certain  recollections  of  a  peddler  who  had  called  to  15 
drink  at  the  house  about  a  month  before,  and  had 
actually  stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box  about  with 
Iiim  to  light  his  pipe.  Here,  surely,  was  a  clew  to  be 
followed  out.  And  as  memory,  when  duly  impregnated 
vvith  ascertained  facts,  is  sometimes  surprisingly  fertile,  20 
Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered  a  vivid  impression  of  the 
•effect  produced  on  him  by  the  peddler's  countenance 
^nd  conversation.  He  had  a  "  look  with  his  eye  "  which 
fell  unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensitive  organism.  To 
1)0  sure,  he  didn't  say  anything  particular — ^no,  except  35 
that  about  the  tinder-box — but  it  isn't  what  a  man  says, 
it's  the  way  he  says  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a  swarthy 
:foreignness  of  complexion  which  boded  little  honesty. 

"  Did  he  wear  earrings?  "  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished 
i:o  know,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  cus-  80 
toms. 

"  Well — stay — ^let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Snell,  like  a 
docile  clairvoyant,  who  would  really  not  make  a  mis- 


108  SILAS  MARNER 

take  if  she  could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  and  contracting  his  eyes^  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  see  the  earrings,  he  appeared  to  give  up  the 
effort,  and  said,  "  Well,  he'd  got  earrings  in  his  hox 

5  to  sell,  so  it's  nat'ral  to  suppose  he  might  wear  'em. 
But  he  called  at  every  house,  a'most,  in  the  village; 
there's  somebody  else,  mayhap,  saw  'em  in  his  ears, 
though  I  can't  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say." 

Mr.   Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  some- 

10  body  else  would  remember  the  peddler's  earrings.  For, 
on  the  spread  of  inquiry  among  the  villagers,  it  was 
stated  with  gathering  emphasis,  that  the  parson  had 
wanted  to  know  whether  the  peddler  wore  earrings  in 
his  ears,  and  an  impression  was  created  that  a  great 

15  deal  depended  on  the  eliciting  of  this  fact.  Of  course 
every  one  who  heard  the  question,  not  having  any  dis- 
tinct image  of  the  peddler  as  without  earrings,  imme- 
diately had  an  image  of  him  with  earrings,  larger  or 
smaller,  as  the  case  might  be;  and  the  image  was  pres- 

SO  ently  taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier's 
wife,  a  well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying,  and 
whose  house  was  among  the  cleanest  in  the  village, 
was  ready  to  declare,  as  sure  as  ever  she  meant  to  take 
the  sacrament  the  very  next  Christmas  that  was  ever 

25  coming,  that  she  had  seen  big  earrings,  in  the  shape 
of  the  young  moon,  in  the  peddler's  two  ears;  while 
Jinny  Gates,  the  cobbler's  daughter,  being  a  more  im- 
aginative person,  stated  not  only  that  she  had  seen 
them  too,  but  that  they  had  made  her  blood  creep, 

80  as  it  did  at  that  very  moment  while  there  she  stood. 
Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clew 
of  the  tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of  all  the  arti- 
cles purchased  from  the  peddler  at  various  houses,  and 


SILAS  MARNER  109 

carried  to  the  Eainbow  to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact, 
there  was  a  general  feeling  in  the  village,  that  for  the 
clearing  up  of  this  robbery  there  must  be  a  great  deal 
done  at  the  Eainbow,  and  that  no  man  need  offer  his 
wife  an  excuse  for  going  there  while  it  was  the  scene  5 
of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little 
indignation  also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas  Mar- 
ner,  on  being  questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the  parson, 
had  retained  no  other  recollection  of  the  peddler  than  lo 
that  he  had  called  at  his  door,  but  had  not  entered  his 
house,  having  turned  away  at  once  when  Silas,  holding 
the  door  ajar,  had  said  that  he  wanted  nothing.    This 
had  been  Silas's  testimony,  though  he  clutched  strongly 
at  the  idea  of  the  peddler's  being  the  culprit,  if  only  15 
because  it  gave  him  a  definite  image  of  a  whereabout 
for  his  gold,  after  it  had  been  taken  away  from  its 
hiding  place:  he  could  see  it  now  in  the  peddler's  box. 
But  it  was  observed  with  some  irritation  in  the  village, 
that  anybody  but  a  "  blind  creatur  "  like  Marner  would  20 
have  seen  the  man  prowling  about,  for  how  came  he  to 
leave  his  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't 
been  lingering  there?    Doubtless,  he  had  made  his  ob- 
servations when  he  saw  Marner  at  the  door.     Anybody 
might  know — and  only  look  at  him — that  the  weaver  25 
was  a  half -crazy  miser.     It  was  a  wonder  the  peddler 
hadn't  murdered  him;  men  of  that  sort,  with  rings  in 
their  ears,  had  been  known  for  murderers  often  and 
often;  there  had  been  one  tried  at  the  'sizes,  not  so  long 
ago  but  what  there  were   people  living  who  remem-  30 
bered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Eainbow  during 
one  of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his  tes- 


110  SILAS  MARKER 

timony,  had  treated  it  lightlj;,  stating  that  he  himself 
had  bought  a  penknife  of  the  peddler,  and  thought  him 
a  merry  grinning  fellow  enough;  it  was  all  nonsense^, 
he  said,  about  the  man^s  evil  looks.  But  this  was  spoken- 
5  of  in  the  village  as  the  random  talk  of  youth,  "  as  if  it 
was  only  Mr.  Snell  who  had  seen  something  odd  about 
the  peddler!  ^^  On  the  contrary,  there  were  at  least 
half  a  dozen  who  were  ready  to  go  before  Justice  Malam, 
and  give  in  much  more  striking  testimony  than  any  the- 

10  landlord  could  furnish.  It  was  to  be  hoped  Mr.  Godfrey 
would  not  go  to  Tarley  and  throw  cold  water  on  what 
Mr.  Snell  said  there,  and  so  prevent  the  justice  from 
drawing  up  a  warrant.  He  was  suspected  of  intending^ 
this,  when,  after  nudday,  he  was  seen  setting  off  on 

15  horseback  in  the  direction  of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the  robbery 
had  faded  before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstan 
and  Wildfire,  and  he  was  going,  not  to 'Tarley,  but  to* 
Batherley,  unable  to  rest  in  uncertainty  about  them 

20  any  longer.  The  possibility  that  Dunstan  had  played 
him  the  ugly  trick  of  riding  away  with  Wildfire,  to 
return  at  the  end  of  a  month,  when  he  had  gambled 
away  or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of  the  horse, 
was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  even,  than 

8R  the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury;  and  now  that  the 
dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was  irritated  with 
himself  that  he  had  trusted  his  horse  to  Dunstan.  In- 
stead of  trying  to  still  his  fears  he  encouraged  them, 
with  that  superstitious  impression  which  clings  to  u&- 

ao  all,  that  if  we  expect  evil  very  strongly  it  is  the  less 
likely  to  come;  and  when  he  heard  a  horse  approaching 
at  a  trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  beyond 
an  angle  of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration  had 


SILAS  MARNER  HI 

succeeded.  But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come  within 
sight  than  his  heart  sank  again.  It  was  not  Wild- 
fire; and  in  a  few  moments  more  he  discerned  that  the 
rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who  pulled  up  to 
speak,  with  a  face  that  implied  something  disagree-  5 
able. 

''  Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that^s  a  lucky  brother  of  yours, 
tj^at  Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he?'' 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  said  Godfrey  hastily. 

"  Why,  hasn't  he  been  home  yet?  "  said  Bryce.  10 

"Home? — no.      What   has   happened?      Be    quick. 
What  has  he  done  with  my  horse  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended 
you  had  parted  with  it  to  him." 

"  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees?  "  15 
said  Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Bryce.  "You  see,  I'd 
made  a  bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty — a  swinging  price,  but  I  always  liked 
the  horse.  And  what  does  he  do  but  go  and  stake  him  20 
• — fly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes  in  it,  atop  of  a  bank  with 
a  ditch  before  it.  The  horse  had  been  dead  a  pretty 
good  while  when  he  was  found.  So  he  hasn't  been  home 
since,  has  he  ?  " 

"  Home? — no,"  said  Godfrey,  "  and  he'd  better  keep  35 
away.     Confound  me  for  a  fool!    I  might  have  known 
this  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Bryce,  "after 
I'd  bargained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my  head 
that  he  might  be  riding  and  selling  the  horse  without  30 
your  knowledge,  for  I  didn't  believe  it  was  his  own. 
I  knew  Master  Dunsey  was  up  to  his  tricks  sometimes. 
But  where  can  he  be  gone?     He's  never  been  seen  at 


112  SILAS  MARNER 

Batherley.     He  couldn't  have  been  hurt,  for  he  must 
have  walked  off/' 

"Hurt?"  said  Godfrey  bitterly.  "He'll  never  be 
hurt — he's  made  to  hurt  other  people." 

5  "  And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse, 
eh?"  said  Bryce. 

"  Yes;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse — he  was 
always  a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me/'  said 
Godfrey;  his  pride  making  him  wince  under  the  idea 

10  that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale  to  be  a  matter  of  necessity. 
"  I  was  going  to  see  after  him — I  thought  some  mischief 
had  happened.  I'll  go  back  now/'  he  added,  turning 
the  horse's  head,  and  wishing  he  could  get  rid  of  Bryce; 
for  he  felt  that  the  long-dreaded  crisis  in  his  life  was 

15  close  upon  him.  "  You're  coming  on  to  Raveloe,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.  "  I  was  coming- 
round  there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  and  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  take  you  in  my  way,  and  just  let  you 

^0  know  all  I  knew  myself  about  the  horse.  I  suppose 
Master  Dunsey  didn't  like  to  show  himself  till  the  ill 
news  had  blown  over  a  bit.  He's  perhaps  gone  to  pay 
a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by  Whitbridge — I  know 
he's  fond  of  the  house." 

25  "Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently. 
Then  rousing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  care- 
lessness, "  We  shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I'll  be 
bound." 

"  Well,  here's  my  turning/'  said  Bryce,  not  surprised 

80  to  perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  "  down  ";  "  so  I'll 
bid  you  good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better 
news  another  time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself 


SILAS  MARKER  113 

the  scene  of  confession  to  his  father  from  which  he  felt 
that  there  was  now  no  longer  any  escape.  The  revela- 
tion about  the  money  must  be  made  the  very  next 
morning;  and  if  he  withheld  the  rest,  Dunstan  would  be 
sure  to  come  back  shortly,  and,  finding  that  he  must  5 
bear  the  brunt  of  his  father's  anger,  would  tell  the 
whole  story  out  of  spite,  even  though  he  had  nothing 
to  gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step,  perhaps,  by  which 
he  might  still  win  Dunstan's  silence  and  put  off  the 
evil  day:  he  might  tell  his  father  that  he  had  himself  lo 
spent  the  money  paid  to  him  by  Fowler;  and  as  he  had 
never  been  guilty  of  such  an  offense  before,  the  affair 
would  blow  over  after  a  little  storming.  But  Godfrey 
could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  He  felt  that  in  letting 
Dunstan  have  the  money  he  had  already  been  guilty  of  is 
a  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  culpable  than  that  of 
spending  the  money  directly  for  his  own  behoof;  and 
yet  there  was  a  distinction  between  the  two  acts  which 
made  him  feel  that  the  one  was  so  much  more  blacken- 
ing than  the  other  as  to  be  intolerable  to  him.  20 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,''  he  said  to 
himself;  ^^but  I'm  not  a  scoundrel — at  least,  I'll  stop 
short  somewhere.  I'll  bear  the  consequences  of  what  I 
have  done  sooner  than  make  believe  I've  done  what  I 
never  would  have  done.  I'd  never  have  spent  the  25 
money  for  my  own  pleasure — I  was  tortured  into  it." 

Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with 
only  occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the 
direction  of  a  complete  avowal  to  his  father,  and  he 
withheld  the  story  of  Wildfire's  loss  till  the  next  morn-  30 
ing,  that  it  might  serve  him  as  an  introduction  to 
heavier  matter.  The  old  Squire  was  accustomed  to  his 
son's  frequent  absence  from  home,  and  thought  neither 


114  SILAS  MARNER 

Dunstan^s  nor  Wildfire^s  nonappearance  a  matter  call- 
ing for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to  himself  again  and 
again,  that  if  he  let  slip  this  one  opportunity  of  con- 
fession, he  might  never  have  another;  the  revelation 
5  might  be  made  even  in  a  more  odious  way  than  by  Dun- 
Stan's  malignity — she  might  come,  as  she  had  threat- 
ened to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the  scene  easier 
to  himself  by  rehearsal;  he  made  up  his  mind  how  he 
would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his  weakness  in  letting 

10  Dunstan  have  the  money  to  the  fact  that  Dunstan  had 
a  hold  on  him  which  he  had  been  unable  to  shake  off, 
and  how  he  would  work  up  his  father  to  expect  some- 
thing very  bad  before  he  told  him  the  fact.  The  old 
Squire  was  an  implacable  man:  he  made  resolutions  in 

15  violent  anger,  and  he  was  not  to  be  moved  from  them 
after  his  anger  had  subsided — as  fiery  v^olcanic  matters 
cool  and  harden  into  rock.  Like  many  violent  and  im- 
placable men,  he  allowed  evils  to  grow  under  favor  of 
his  own  heedlessness,  till  they  pressed  upon  him  with 

20  exasperating  force,  and  then  he  turned  round  with 
fierce  severity  and  became  unrelentingly  hard.  This 
was  his  system  with  his  tenants:  he  allowed  them  to  get 
into  arrears,  neglect  their  fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell 
their  straw,  and  otherwise  go  the  wrong  way — and  then, 

25  when  he  became  short  of  money  in  consequence  of  this 
indulgence,  he  took  the  hardest  measures  and  would 
listen  to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this,  and  felj; 
it  with  the  greater  force  because  he  had  constantly 
suffered  annoyance  from  witnessing  his  father's  sudden 

30  fits  of  unrelentingness,  for  which  his  own  habitual  ir- 
resolution deprived  him  of  all  sympathy.  (He  was  not 
critical  on  the  faulty  indulgence  which  preceded  these 
fits;  that  seemed  to  him  natural  enough.)     Still  there 


SILAS  MARNER  115 

was  just  the  chance,  Godfrey  thought,  that  his  father's 
pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a  light  that  would 
induce  him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his  son  out 
and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country  for  ten 
miles  round.  5 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey  managed 
to  keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight,  and  he 
went  to  sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with  inward 
debating.  But  when  he  awoke  in  the  still  morning 
darkness  he  found  it  impossible  to  reawaken  his  even-  lo 
ing  thoughts;  it  was  as  if  they  had  been  tired  out  and 
were  not  to  be  roused  to  further  work.  Instead  of  ar- 
guments for  confession,  he  could  now  feel  the  presence 
of  nothing  but  its  evil  consequences:  the  old  dread  of 
disgrace  came  back  —  the  old  shrinking  from  the  15 
thought  of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between  himself 
and  Nancy — the  old  disposition  to  rely  on  chances  which 
might  be  favorable  to  him,  and  save  him  from  betrayal. 
Why,  after  all,  should  he  cut  off  the  hope  of  them  by 
his  own  act?  He  had  seen  the  matter  in  a  wrong  light  20 
yesterday.  He  had  been  in  a  rage  with  Dunstan,  and 
had  thought  of  nothing  but  a  thorough  break-up  of 
their  mutual  understanding;  but  what  it  would  be  really 
wisest  for  him  to  do  was  to  try  and  soften  his  father's 
anger  against  Dunsey,  and  keep  things  as  nearly  as  pos-  25 
sible  in  their  old  condition.  If  Dunsey  did  not  come 
back  for  a  few  days  (and  Godfrey  did  not  know  but 
that  the  rascal  had  enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  en- 
able him  to  keep  away  still  longer),  everything  might 
blow  over.  9a 


CHAPTEE  IX 

Godfrey  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier 

than  usual,  but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlor  till 

his  younger  brothers  had  finished  their  meal  and  gone 

'.  out,  awaiting  his  father,  who  always  took  a  walk  with 

5  his  managing-man  before  breakfast.  Every  one  break- 
fasted at  a  different  hour  in  the  Ked  House,  and  the 
Squire  was  always  the  latest,  giving  a  long  chance  to  a 
rather  feeble  morning  appetite  before  he  tried  it.  The 
table  had  been  spread  with  substantial  eatables  nearly 

10  two  hours  before  he  presented  himself — a  tall,  stout 
man  of  sixty,  with  a  face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and 
rather  hard  glance  seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack  and 
feeble  mouth.  His  person  showed  marks  of  habitua?". 
neglect,  his  dress  was  slovenly;  and  yet  there  was  some. 

15  thing  in  the  presence  of  the  old  Squire  distinguishable 
from  that  of  the  ordinary  farmers  in  the  parish,  who 
were  perhaps  every  whit  as  refined  as  he,  but,  having 
slouched  their  way  through  life  with  a  consciousness 
of  being  in  the  vicinity  of  their  "  betters,^'  wanted  that 

20  self-possession  and  authoritativeness  of  voice  and  car- 
riage which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of  superiors 
as  remote  existences,  with  whom  he  had  personally  little 
more  to  do  than  with  America  or  the  stars.  The  squire 
had  been  used  to  parish  homage  all  his  life,  used  to 

25  the  presupposition  that  his  family,  his  tankards,  and 
116 


1^  SILAS  MARNER  117 

everything  that  was  his,  were  the  oldest  and  best;  and 
as  he  never  associated  with  any  gentry  higher  than  him- 
self, his  opinion  was  not  disturbed  by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and 
said,  "  What,  sir!  haven't  you  had  yonr  breakfast  yet?  "  5 
but  there  was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  between 
them;  not  because  of  any  unfriendliness,  but  because 
the  sweet  flower  of  courtesy  is  not  a  growth  of  such 
homes  as  the  Eed  House. 

"  Yes,  sir/'  said  Godfrey,  ^^  I've  had  my  breakfast,  lo 
but  I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  you/^ 

"Ah!  weiy^  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  in- 
differently into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous 
coughing  fashion,  which  was  felt  in  Eaveloe  to  be  a 
sort  of  privilege  of  his  rank,  while  he  cut  a  piece  of  '^ 
beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the  deerhound  that  had  come 
in  with  him.  "Eing  the  bell  for  my  ale,  vrill  you? 
You  youngsters'  business  is  your  own  pleasure,  mostly. 
There's  no  hurry  about  it  for  anybody  but  yourselves/' 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons',  but  20 
it  was  a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contempo- 
raries in  Eaveloe  that  youth  was  exclusively  the  period 
of  folly,  and  that  their  aged  wisdom  was  constantly 
in  a  state  of  endurance  mitigated  by  sarcasm.  Godfrey 
waited,  before  he  spoke  again,  until  the  ale  had  been  ^ 
brought  and  the  door  closed — an  interval  during  which 
Fleet,  the  deerhound,  had  consumed  enough  bits  of  beef 
to  make  a  poor  man's  holiday  dinner. 

"  There's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill  luck  with  Wild- 
fire," he  began;  "  happened  the  day  before  yesterday."    30 

^^What!  broke  his  knees?"  said  the  Squire,  after 
taking  a  draught  of  ale.  "  I  thought  you  knew  how  to 
l-ide  better  than  that,  sir.    I  never  threw  a  horse  down 


118  SILAS  MARNER 

in  my  life.  If  I  had,  I  might  ha'  whistled  for  another, 
for  my  father  wasn't  quite  so  ready  to  unstring  as  some 
other  fathers  I  know  of.  But  they  must  turn  over  a 
new  leaf — they  must.  What  with  mortgages  and  arrears; 
&  I'm  as  short  o'  cash  as  a  roadside  pauper.  And  that 
fool  Kimble  says  the  newspaper's  talking  about  peace 
Why,  the  country  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to  stand  on. 
Prices  'ud  run  down  like  a  jack,  and  I  should  never  get 
my  arrears,  not  if  I  sold  all  the  fellows  up.    And  there's 

10  that  damned  Fowler,  I  won't  put  up  with  him  any 
longer;  I've  told  Winthrop  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day. 
The  lying  scoundrel  told  me  he'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a 
hundred  last  month.  He  takes  advantage  because  he's 
on  that  outlying  farm  and  thinks  I  shall  forget  him." 

15  The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  coughing 
and  interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long  enough 
for  Godfrey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking  up  the 
word  again.  He  felt  that  his  father  meant  to  ward 
off  any  request  for  money  on  the  ground  of  the  misfor- 

i^\  tune  with  Wildfire,  and  that  the  emphasis  he  had  thus 
been  led  to  lay  on  his  shortness  of  cash  and  his  arrears 
was  likely  to  produce  an  attitude  of  mind  the  utmost 
unfavorable  for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he  must  go  on 
now  he  had  begun. 

25  "  It's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees — he's 
been  staked  and  killed,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  father 
was  silent,  and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat.  "  But  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  asking  you  to  buy  me  another  horse; 
I  was  only  thinking  I'd  lost  the  means  of  paying  you 

30  with  the  price  of  Wildfire  as  I'd  meant  to  do.  Dunsey 
took  him  to  the  hunt  to  sell  him  for  me  the  other  day, 
and  after  he'd  made  a  bargain  for  a  hundred  and  twenty 
with  Bryce  he  went  after  the  hounds,  and  took  some 


SILAS  MARNER  119 

fool's  leap  or  other  that  did  for  the  horse  at  once.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that,  I  should  have  paid  you  a  hundred 
pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and 
was  staring  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  suffi-  5 
ciently  quick  of  brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to 
what  could  have  caused  so  strange  an  inversion  of  the 
paternal  and  filial  relations  as  this  proposition  of  his 
son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir — Fm  very  sorry — I  was  quite  to  10 
blame/'  said  Godfrey.  "  Fowler  did  pay  that  hundred 
pounds.  He  paid  it  to  me  when  I  was  over  there  one 
day  last  month.  And  Dunsey  bothered  me  for  the 
money,  and  I  let  him  have  it,  because  I  hoped  I  should 
be  able  to  pay  it  you  before  this."  15 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son 
had  done  speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult. 
^^You  let  Dunsey  have  it,  sir?  And  how  long -have 
you  been  so  thick  with  Dunsey  that  you  must  collogue 
with  him  to  embezzle  my  money?  Are  you  turning  se 
out  a  scamp?  I  tell  you  I  w^on't  have  it.  I'll  turn 
the  whole  pack  of  you  out  of  the  house  together,  and 
marry  again.  I'd  have  you  to  remember,  sir,  my  prop- 
erty's got  no  entail  on  it;  since  my  grandfather's  time 
the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like  with  their  land.  Ee-  35 
member  that,  sir.  Let  Dunsey  have  the  money!  Why 
should  you  let  Dunsey  have  the  money?  There's  some 
lie  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  There's  no  He,  sir,"  said  Godfrey.     "  I  wouldn't 
have  spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered  me,  30 
and  I  was  a  fool  and  let  him  have  it.     But  I  meant 
to  pay  it  whether  he  did  or  not.     That's  the  whole  story. 
I  never  meant  to  embezzle  money,  and  I'm  not  the 


120  SILAS  MARNER 

man  to  do  it.     You  never  knew  me  do   a  dishonest 
trick,  sir." 

"  AVhere^s  Dunsey,  then?  What  do  you  stand  talk- 
ing there  for?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you,  and 
5  let  him  give  account  of  what  he  wanted  the  money  for, 
and  what  he^s  done  with  it.  He  shall  repent  it.  I'll 
turn  him  out.  I  said  I  would,  and  Til  do  it.  He  shan't 
brave  me.    Go  and  fetch  him.'' 

''  Dunsey  isn't  come  back,  sir." 
10        ^^What!  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then?"  said 
the  Squire  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that 
case,  he  could  not  fulfill  his  threat. 

"  No,  he  wasn't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was 
found  dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.     I  dare 
15  say  we  shall  see  him  again  by  and  by.     I  don't  know 
where  he  is." 

"  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  money 
for?  Answer  me  that,"  said  the  Squire  attacking  God- 
fre}^  again,  since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 
20  "  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godfrey  hesitatingly. 
That  was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not  fond  of 
lying,  and,  not  being  sufficiently  aware  that  no  sort  of 
duplicity  can  long  flourish  without  the  help  of  vocal 
falsehoods,  he  was  quite  unprepared  with  invented 
25  motives. 

"You  don't  know?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir. 
You've  been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you've  been  bribing 
him  not  to  tell,"  said  the  Squire  with  a  sudden  acute- 
ness  which  startled  Godfrey,  who  felt  his  heart  beat 
30  violently  at  the  nearness  of  his  father's  guess.  The 
sudden  alarm  pushed  him  on  to  take  the  next  step — a 
very  slight  impulse  suffices  for  that  on  a  downward  road. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless 


SILAS  MARKER  121 

ease,  "it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey; 
it^s  no  matter  to  anybody  else.  It^s  hardly  worth  while 
to  pry  into  young  men^s  fooleries:  it  wouldn^t  have 
made  any  difterenee  to  yon,  sir,  if  Fd  not  had  the  bad 
luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I  should  have  paid  you  the  5 
money/^ 

"Fooleries!  Pshaw!  it's  time  you'd  done  with  fool- 
eries. And  Fd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha'  done 
with  'em,"  said  the  Squire,  frowning  and  casting  an 
angry  glance  at  his  son.  "  Your  goings-on  are  not  what  10 
I  shall  find  money  for  any  longer.  There's  my  grand- 
father had  his  stables  full  o'  horses,  and  kept  a  good 
house,  too,  and  in  worse  times,  by  what  I  can  make 
out;  and  so  might  I,  if  I  hadn't  four  good-for-nothing 
fellows  to  hang  on  me  like  horse-leeches.  Fve  been  15 
too  good  a  father  to  you  all — that's  what  it  is.  But  I 
shall  pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent.  He  was  not  likely  to  be  very 
penetrating  in  his  judgments,  but  he  had  always  had 
a  sense  that  his  father's  indulgence  had  not  been  kind-  20 
ness,  and  had  had  a  vague  longing  for  some  discipline 
that  would  have  checked  his  own  errant  weakness 
and  helped  his  better  will.  The  Squire  ate  his  bread 
and  meat  hastily,  took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then 
turned  his  chair  from  the  table,  and  began  to  speak  25 
again. 

"  It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know — ^you'd 
need  try  and  help  me  keep  things  together." 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  often  offered  to  take  the  manage- 
ment of  things,  but  you  know  you've  taken  it  ill  always,  30 
and  seemed  to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out  of  your 
place." 

"  I  know  nothing  0'  your  offering  or  0'  my  taking  it 


122  SILAS  MARNER 

ill/^  said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in  cer.. 
tain  strong  impressions  unmodified  by  detail;  "  but  1 
know  one  while  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  o^  marrying, 
and  I  didn^t  offer  to  put  any  obstacles  in  your  way/; 

5  as  some  fathers  would.  Fd  as  lieve  you  married  Lam- 
meter^s  daughter  as  anybody.  I  suppose  if  I'd  said  you 
nay,  youM  ha'  kept  on  with  it;  but  for  want  o'  contra° 
diction  you've  changed  your  mind.  You're  a  shilly- 
shally fellow:  you  take  after  your  poor  mother.     She 

10  never  had  a  will  of  her  own;  a  woman  has  no  call  for 
one,  if  she's  got  a  proper  man  for  her  husband.  But 
your  wife  had  need  have  one,  for  you  hardly  know  your 
own  mind  enough  to  make  both  your  legs  walk  one 
way.     The  lass  hasn't  said  downright  she  won't  have 

15  you,  has  she  ?  " 

"  No,'^  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable; "  but  I  don't  think  she  will.'' 

"  Think!  why  haven't  you  the  courage  to  ask  her? 
Do  you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  lier — that's  the 

20  thing?  " 

'^  There's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said 
Godfrey  evasively. 

''  Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that's 
all,  if  you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself.     Lam- 

l\5  meter  isn't  likely  to  be  loath  for  his  daughter  to  marry 
into  my  family,  I  should  think.  And  as  for  the  pretty 
lass,  she  wouldn't  have  her  cousin — and  there's  nobody 
else,  as  I  see,  could  ha'  stood  in  your  way." 

^*  I'd  rather  let  it  be,  please,  sir,  at  present,"  said 

30  Godfrey,  in  alarm.  '"  I  think  she's  a  little  offended 
with  me  just  now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for 
myself.  A  man  must  manage  these  things  for  him- 
self." 


SILAS  MARNER  123 

^^Well,  speak  then  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you 
ian't  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  That^s  what  a  man  must 
lo  when  he  thinks  o^  marrying/^ 

I     "  I  don^t  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir. 
iTou  wouldn't  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms,  I  5 
uppose,  and  I  don't  think  she'd  come  to  live  in  this 
louse  with  all  my  brothers.    It's  a  different  sort  of  life 
;o  what  she's  been  used  to." 

"]^ot  come  to  live  in  this  house?     Don't  tell  me. 
iTou  ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short,  lo 
cornful  laugh. 

"I'd  rather  let  the  thing  be  at  present,  sir,"  said 
Todfrey.  "I  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by 
aying  anything." 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  15 
]  shall  let  you  know  I'm  master;  else  you  may  turn 
)ut  and  find  an  estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.    Go 
)ut  and  tell  Winthrop  not  to  go  to  Cox's,  but  wait  for 
ne.    And  tell  'em  to  get  my  horse  saddled.  And,  stop: 
ook  out  and  get  that  hack  o'  Dunsey's  sold,  and  hand  20 
ne  the  money,  will  you?    He'll  keep  no  more  hacks  at 
ny  expense.     And  if  you  know  where  he's  sneaking — 
[  dare  say  you  do — you  may  tell  him  to  spare  him- 
!elf  the  journey  o'  coming  back  home.     Let  him  turn 
)stler  and  keep  himself.     He  shan't  hang  on  me  any  25 
nore." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is;  and  if  I  did,  it  isn't 
ny  place  to  tell  him  to  keep  away,"  said  Godfrey,  mov- 
.ng  toward  the  door. 

"  Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and  30 
Drder  my  horse,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he 
prere  more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview  was 


124  SILAS  MARKER 

ended  without  having  made  any  change  in  his  position, 
or  more  uneasy  that  he  had  entangled  himself  still  fur- 
ther in  prevarication  and  deceit.  What  had  passed 
about  his  proposing  to  E'ancy  had  raised  a  new  alarm,  I 
5  lest  by  some  after-dinner  words  of  his  father^s  to  Mr. 
Lammeter  he  should  be  thrown  into  the  embarrass- 
ment of  being  obliged  absolutely  to  decline  her  when 
she  seemed  to  be  within  his  reach.  He  fled  to  his 
usual"  refuge,    that    of    hoping    for    some    unforeseen 

10  turn  of  fortune,  some  favorable  chance  which  would 
save  him  from  unpleasant  consequences  —  perhaps 
even  justify  his  insincerity  by  manifesting  its  pru- 
dence. 

In  this  point  of  trusting  to  some  throw  of  fortune's 

15  dice  Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called  old-fashioned.  Fa- 
vorable Chance  is  the  god  of  all  men  who  follow  their 
own  devices  instead  of  obeying  a  law  they  believe  in. 
Let  even  a  polished  man  of  these  days  get  into  a  posi- 
tion he  is  ashamed  to  avow,  and  his  mind  will  be  bent 

20  on  all  the  possible  issues  that  may  deliver  him  from  the 
calculable  results  of  that  position.  Let  him  live  outside 
his  income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that  brings 
wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself  dreaming  of  a 
possible  benefactor,  a  possible  simpleton  who  may  be 

25  cajoled  into  using  his  interest,  a  possible  state  of  mind 
in  some  possible  person  not  yet  forthcoming.  Let  him 
neglect  the  responsibilities  of  his  office,  and  he  will 
inevitably  anchor  himself  on  the  chance,  that  the  thing 
left  undone  may  turn  out  not  to  be  of  tjie  supposed  im- 

30  portance.  Let  him  betray  his  friend's  confidence,  and  \ 
he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  complexity  called  1 
Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that  his  friend  will  { 
never  know.     Let  him  forsake  a  decent  craft  that  he  1 


I  SILAS  MARNER  125 

may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession  to  which  na- 
ture never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will  infallibly  be 
the  worship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he  will  believe  in 
as  the  mighty  creator  of  success.  The  evil  principle 
deprecated  in  that  religion  is  the  orderly  sequence  by  5 
which  the  seed  brings  forth  a  crop  after  its  kind. 


CHAPTER  X 

-.  Justice  Malam  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley 
and  Raveloe  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that 
he  could  draw  much  wider  conclusions  without  evidence 
than  could  be  expected  of  his  neighbors  who  were  not  on 

■5  the  Commission  of  the  Peace.  Such  a  man  was  not 
likely  to  neglect  the  clew  of  the  tinder-box,  and  an  in- 
quiry was  set  on  foot  concerning  a  peddler,  name  un« 
known,  with  curly  black  hair  and  a  foreign  complexion, 
carrying  a  box  of  cutlery  and  jewelry,  and  wearing  large 

10  rings  in  his  ears.  But  either  because  inquiry  was  too 
slow-footed  to  overtake  him,  or  because  the  description 
applied  to  so  many  peddlers  that  inquiry  did  not  know 
how  to  choose  among  them,  weeks  passed  away,  and  there 
was   no   other   result   concerning  the   robbery   than   a 

15  gradual  cessation  of  the  excitement  it  had  caused  in 
Raveloe.  Dunstan  Cass's  absence  was  hardly  a  subject 
of  remark:  he  had  once  before  had  a  quarrel  with  his 
father,  and  had  gone  off,  nobody  knew  whither,  to  re- 
turn at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old  quarters 

20  unforbidden,  and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family, 
who  equally  expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole  difference 
that  the  Squire  was  determined  this  time  to  forbid  him 
the  old  quarters,  never  mentioned  his  absence,  and  when 
his  Uncle  Kimble  or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the  story  of 

25  his  having  killed  Wildfire,  and  committed  some  offense 
126 


SILAS  MARNER  127 

against  his  father,  was  enough  to  prevent  surprise.  To 
connect  the  fact  of  Dunsey's  disappearance  with  that 
of  the  robbery  occurring  on  the  same  day,  lay  quite  away 
from  the  track  of  every  one^s  thought — even  Godfrey's, 
who  had  better  reason  than  any  one  else  to  know  what  9 
his  brother  was  capable  of.  He  remembered  no  mention 
of  the  weaver  between  them  since  the  time,  twelve  years 
ago,  when  it  was  their  boyish  sport  to  deride  him;  and, 
besides,  his  imagination  constantly  created  an  alibi  for 
Dunstan:  he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial  10 
haunt,  to  which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire — 
saw  him  sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  medi- 
tating a  return  home  to  the  old  amusement  of  torment- 
ing his  elder  brother.  Even  if  any  brain  in  Eaveloe  had 
put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I  doubt  whether  a  com-  is 
bination  so  injurious  to  the  prescriptive  respectability 
of  a  family  with  a  mural  monument  and  venerable 
tankards  would  not  have  been  suppressed  as  of  unsound 
tendency.  But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn,  and  abun* 
dance  of  spirituous  liquors,  throwing  the  mental  origi-  20 
nality  into  the  channel  of  nightmare,  are  great  preserva- 
tives against  a  dangerous  spontaneity  of  waking  thought. 
When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Eainbow  and 
elsewhere,  in  good  company,  the  balance  continued  to 
waver  between  the  rational  explanation  founded  on  the  25 
tinder-box  and  the  theory  of  an  impenetrable  mystery 
that  mocked  investigation.  The  advocates  of  the  tinder- 
box-and-peddler  view  considered  the  other  side  a  mud- 
dle-headed and  credulous  set,  who,  because  they  them- 
selves were  wall-eyed,  supposed  everybody  else  to  have  30 
the  same  blank  outlook;  and  the  adherents  of  the  in- 
explicable more  than  hinted  that  their  antagonists  were 
animals  inclined  to  crow  before  they  had  found  any  corn 


128  SILAS  MARKER 

— mere  skimming-dishes  in  point  of  depth — whose  clear- 
sightedness consisted  in  supposing  there  was  nothing 
behind  a  barn  door  because  they  couldn't  see  through 
it;  so  that,  though  their  controversy  did  not  serve  to 

6  elicit  the  fact  concerning  the  robbery,  it  elicited  some 
true  opinions  of  collateral  importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas's  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the 
slow  current  of  Eaveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself  was 
feeling  the  withering  desolation  of  that  bereavement 

10  about  which  his  neighbors  were  arguing  at  their  ease. 
To  any  one  who  had  observed  him  before  he  lost  his  gold 
it  might  have  seemed  that  so  withered  and  shrunken  a 
life  as  his  could  hardly  be  susceptible  of  a  bruise,  could 
hardly  endure  any  subtraction  but  such  as  would  put 

15  an  end  to  it  altogether.  But  in  reality  it  had  been 
an  eager  life,  filled  with  immediate  purpose,  which 
fenced  him  in  from  the  wide,  cheerless  unknown.  It 
had  been  a  clinging  life;  and  though  the  object  round 
which  its  fibers  had  clung  was  a  dead  disrupted  thing, 

20  it  satisfied  the  need  for  clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was 
broken  down — the  support  was  snatched  away.  Mar- 
ner's  thoughts  could  no  longer  move  in  their  old  round, 
and  were  baffled  by  a  blank  like  that  which  meets  a 
plodding  ant  when  the  earth  has  broken  away  on  its 

25  homeward  path.  The  loom  was  there,  and  the  weaving, 
and  the  growing  pattern  in  the  cloth;  but  the  bright 
treasure  in  the  hole  under  his  feet  was  gone;  the  pros- 
pect of  handling  and  counting  it  was  gone;  the  evening 
had  no  phantasm  of  delight  to  still  the  poor  soul's  crav- 

80  ing.  The  thought  of  the  money  he  would  get  by  his 
actual  work  could  bring  no  joy,  for  its  meager  image 
was  only  a  fresh  reminder  of  his  loss;  and  hope  was  too 
heavily  crushed  by  the  sudden  blow  for  his  imagination 


SILAS  MARNER  129 

to  dwell  on  the  growth  of  a  new  hoard  from  that  small 
beginning. 

He  filled  np  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat  w^eaving, 
he  every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in  pain: 
it  was  the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round  again  5 
to  the  sudden  chasm — to  the  empty  evening  time.  And 
all  the  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  loneliness  by  his  dull 
fire,  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his 
head  with  his  hands,  and  moaned  very  low — not  as  one 
who  seeks  to  be  heard.  lo 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble. 
The  repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neigh- 
bors was  partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which 
this  misfortune  had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man  who 
had  more  cunning  than  honest  folks  could  come  by,  and,  15 
what  was  worse,  had  not  the  inclination  to  use  that 
cunning  in  a  neighborly  way,  it  was  now  apparent  that 
Silas  had  not  cunning  enough  to  keep  his  own.  He  was 
generally  spoken  of  as  a  "  poor  mushed  creatur  ^^;  and 
that  avoidance  of  his  neighbors,  which  had  before  been  20 
referred  to  his  ill  will,  and  to  a  probable  addiction  to 
worse  company,  w^as  now  considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in  vari- 
ous ways.  The  odor  of  Christmas  cooking  being  on  the 
wind,  it  was  the  season  when  superfluous  pork  and  black  25 
puddings  are  suggestive  of  charity  in  well-to-do  families; 
and  Silas's  misfortune  had  brought  him  uppermost  in 
the  memory  of  housekeepers  like  Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr. 
Crackenthorp,  too,  while  he  admonished  Silas  that  his 
money  had  probably  been  taken  from  him  because  he  30 
thought  too  much  of  it  and  never  came  to  church,  en- 
forced the  doctrine  by  a  present  of  pigs'  pettitoes,  well 
calculated  to  dissipate  unfounded  prejudices  against  the 


130  SILAS  MARNER 

clerical  character.  Neighbors^  who  had  nothing  but 
verbal  consolation  to  give^  showed  a  disposition  not  only 
to  greet  Silas^  and  discuss  his  misfortune  at  some  length 
when  they  encountered  him  in  the  village,  but  also  to 
5  take  the  trouble  of  calling  at  his  cottage,  and  getting 
him  to  repeat  all  the  details  on  the  very  spot;  and  then 
they  would  try  to  cheer  him  by  saying,  ''  Well,  Master 
Marner,  you^re  no  worse  off  nor  other  poor  folks,  after 
all;  and  if  you  was  to  be  crippled,  the  parish  'ud  give  you 

10  a  ^lowance/^ 

1  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to 
comfort  our  neighbors  with  our  words  is  that  our  good 
will  gets  adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before  it  can 
pass  our  lips.    We  can  send  black  puddings  and  pettitoes 

15  without  giving  them  a  flavor  of  our  own  egoism;  but 
language  is  a  stream  that  is  almost  sure  to- smack  of  a 
mingled  soil.  There  was  a  fair  proportion  of  kindness 
in  Eaveloe;  but  it  was  often  of  a  beery  and  bungling 
sort,  and  took  the  shape  least  allied  to  the   compli- 

20  mentary  and  hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,  for  example,  coming  one  evening  ex- 
pressly to  let  Silas  know  that  recent  events  had  given 
him  the  advantage  of  standing  more  favorably  in  the 
opinion  of  a  man  whose  judgment  was  not  formed  light- 

g5  ly,  opened  the  conversation  by  saying,  as  soon  as  he  had 
seated  himself  and  adjiisted  his  thumbs — 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  youVe  no  call  to  sit 
a-moaning.  You^re  a  deal  better  off  to  ha'  lost  your 
jnoney,  nor  to  ha'  kep'  it  by  foul  means.     I  used  to 

30  think,  when  you  first  come  into  these  parts,  as  you  were 
no  better  nor  you  should  be;  you  were  younger  a  deal 
than  what  you  are  now;  but  you  were  allays  a  staring, 
white-faced  creatur,  partly  like  a  bald-faced  calf,  as  I 


,    ^  SILAS  MARNER  13i 

may  say.  But  there^s  no  knowing:  it  isn^t  every  qiieer- 
looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry's  had  the  making  of — I 
mean,  speaking  o'  toads  and  such;  for  they're  often 
harmless,  and  useful  against  varmin.  And  it's  pretty 
much  the  same  wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can  see.  Though  5 
as  to  the  yarbs  and  stuff  to  cure  the  breathing,  if  you 
brought  that  sort  o'  knowledge  from  distant  parts,  you 
might  ha'  been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And  if  the  knowledge 
wasn't  well  come  by,  why,  you  might  ha'  made  up  for 
it  by  coming  to  church  reg'lar;  for,  as  for  the  children  10 
as  the  Wise  Woman  charmed,  I've  been  at  the  christen- 
ing of  'em  again  and  again,  and  they  took  the  water 
just  as  well.  And  that's  reasonable;  for  if  Old  Harry's 
a  mind  to  do  a  bit  o'  kindness  for  a  holiday,  like,  who's 
got  anything  against  it?  That's  my  thinking;  and  I've  15 
been  clerk  o'  this  parish  forty  year,  and  I  know,  when 
the  parson  and  me  does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash  Wednes- 
day, there's  no  cussing  o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be 
cured  without  a  doctor,  let  Kimble  say  what  he  will. 
And  so.  Master  Marner,  as  I  was  saying — for  there's  20 
windings  i'  things  as  they  may  carry  you  to  the  fur  end 
o'  the  prayer  book  afore  you  get  back  to  'em — my  advice 
is,  as  you  keep  up  your  sperrits;  for  as  for  thinking 
you're  a  deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  inside  you  nor  'ull 
bear  daylight,  I'm  not  o'  that  opinion  at  all,  and  so  I  25 
tell  the  neighbors.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o'  Master  Mar- 
ner making  out  a  tale — why,  it's  nonsense,  that  is:  it 

17.  Mr.  Macey  here  refers  to  the  special  service  substituted  by  the 
English  church  for  the  original  penance  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  ex- 
acted of  special  penitents  on  the  first  day  of  Lent,  1.  e.,  Ash  Wednes- 
day. In  the  English  liturgy  this  service  is  known  as  "  a  commination 
or  denouncing  of  God's  anger  and  judgments  against  sinners."  It  is 
not  found  in  the  Prayer  Book  of  the  Episcopalian  church  in  America. 
Does  Mr.  Ma  cey  mean  to  be  irreverent  ? 


132  SILAS  MARKER 

^ud  take  a  ^ciite  man  to  make  a  tale  like  that;  and^  says 
I,  he  looked  as  scared  as  a  rabbit/^ 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued 
motionless  in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  elbows 

5  on  his  knees,  and  pressing  his  hands  against  his  head. 
Mr.  Macey,  not  doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to, 
paused,  in  the  expectation  of  some  appreciatory  reply, 
but  Marner  remained  silent.  He  had  a  sense  that  the 
old  man  meant  to  be  good-natured  and  neighborly;  but 

10  the  kindness  fell  on  him  as  sunshine  falls  on  the 
wretched — he  had  no  heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that  it 
was  very  far  off  him. 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to 
say  to  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  with  a  slight 

15  accent  of  impatience. 

"  Ohy^  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  "  I  thank  you — thank  you — kindly.'^ 

''  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure;  I  thought  you  would,^^  said 
Mr.  Macey;  ^^  and  my  advice  is — have  you  got  a  Sunday 

80  suit?^^ 

''  Xo,''  said  Marner. 

"  I  doubted  it  was  so,^^  said  Mr.  Macey.  ^^  Now,  let 
me  advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit;  there's  Tookey, 
he^s  a  poor  creatur,  but  he's  got  my  tailoring  business, 

25  and  some  o'  my  money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit 
at  a  low  price,  and  give  you  trust,  and  then  you  can 
come  to  church,  and  be  a  bit  neighborly.  Why,  you've 
never  beared  me  say  '  Amen '  since  you  come  into  these 
parts,  and  I  recommend  you  to  lose  no  time,  for  it'll  be^ 

80  poor  work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  himself,  for  I  mayn't 
be  equil  to  stand  i'  the  desk  at  all  come  another  winter." 
Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  perhaps  expecting  some  sign  of 
emotion  in  his  hearer,  but  not  observing  any,  he  went 


SILAS  MAENER  133 

on.  ''  And  as  for  the  money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes, 
why,  you  get  a  matter  of  a  pound  a  week  at  your  weav- 
ing, Master  Marner,  and  you're  a  young  man,  eh,  for 
all  you  look  so  mushed.  Why,  you  couldn't  ha'  been 
live  and  twenty  when  you  come  into  these  parts,  eh?"  5 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning 
tone,  and  answered  mildly,  "  I  don't  know;  I  can't 
rightly  say — ^it's  a  long  while  since." 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  even-  lo 
ing  at  the  Eainbow,  that  Marner's  head  was  "  all  of  a 
muddle,"  and  that  it  was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever  knew 
when  Sunday  came  round,  which  showed  him  a  worse 
heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey,  is 
came  to  him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the  same 
topic.    This  was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright's  wife. 
The  inhabitants  of  Eaveloe  were  not  severely  regular  in 
their  church-going,  and  perhaps  there  was  hardly  a  per- 
son in  the  parish  w^ho  would  not  have  held  that  to  go  20 
to  church  every  Sunday  in  the  calendar  would  have 
shown  a  greedy  desire  to  stand  well  with  Heaven,  and 
get  an  undue  advantage  over  their  neighbors — a  wish 
to  be  better  than  the  "  common  run,"  that  would  have 
implied  a  reflection  on  those  who  had  had  godfathers  25 
and  godmothers  as  well  as  themselves,  and  had  an  equal 
right  to  the  burying  service.     At  the  same  time  it  was 
understood  to  be  requisite  for  all  who  were  not  house- 
hold servants,  or  young  men,  to  take  the  sacrament  at 
one  of  the  great  festivals;  Squire  Cass  himself  took  it  30 
on  Christmas  Day;  while  those  who  were  held  to  be 
"  good  livers  "  w^ent  to  church  with  greater,  though  still 
with  moderate,  frequency. 


134  SILAS  MARKER 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  one  of  these:  she  was  in  all 
respects  a  woman  of  scrupulous  conscience^  so  eager  for 
duties  that  life  seemed  to  oifer  them  too  scantily  unless 
she  rose  at  half -past  four,  though  this  threw  a  scarcity 
5  of  work  over  the  more  advanced  hours  of  the  morning, 
which  it  was  a  constant  problem  with  her  to  remove. 
Yet  she  had  not  the  vixenish  temper  which  is  sometimes 
supposed  to  be  a  necessary  condition  of  such  habits:  she 
was  a  very  mild,  patient  woman,  whose  nature  it  was 

10  to  seek  out  all  the  sadder  and  more  serious  elements  of 
life,  and  pasture  her  mind  upon  them.  She  was  the 
person  always  first  thought  of  in  Eaveloe  when  there 
was  illness  or  death  in  a  family,  when  leeches  were  to  be 
applied,   or  there  was  a  sudden  disappointment  in  a 

15  monthly  nurse.  She  was  a  "  comfortable  woman  ^^ — 
good-looking,  fresh-complexioned,  having  her  lips  al- 
ways slightly  screwed,  as  if  she  felt  herself  in  a  sick- 
room with  the  doctor  or  the  clergyman  present.  But 
she  was  never  whimpering;  no  one  had  seen  her  shed 

20  tears;  she  was  simply  grave  and  inclined  to  shake  her 
head  and  sigh,  almost  imperceptibly,  like  a  funereal 
mourner  who  is  not  a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising 
that  Ben  AYinthrop,  who  loved  his  quart  pot  and  his 
joke,  got  along  so  well  with  Dolly;  but  she  took  her  lius- 

25  band's  jokes  and  joviality  as  patiently  as  everything  else, 
considering  that  "men  would  be  so,''  and  viewing  the 
stronger  sex  in  the  light  of  animals  whom  it  had  pleased 
Heaven  to  make  naturally  troublesome,  like  bulls  and 
turkey  cocks. 

50  This  good  wholesome  woman  could  hardly  fail  to 
have  her  mind  drawn  strongly  toward  Silas  Marner  now 
that  he  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer,  and  one  Sun- 
day afternoon  she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron  with  her, 


SILAS  MARNER  135 

and  went  to  call  on  Silas,  carrying  in  her  hand  some 
small  lard-cakes,  flat,  pastelike  articles,  much  esteemed 
in  Eaveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked  youngster  of 
seven,  with  a  clean  starched  frill,  which  looked  like  a 
plate  for  the  apples,  needed  all  his  adventurous  curl-  5 
osity  to  embolden  him  against  the  possibility  that  the 
big-eyed  weaver  might  do  him  some  bodily  injury;  and 
his  dubiety  was  much  increased  when,  on  arriving  at  the 
Stone-pits,  they  heard  the  mysterious  sound  of  the 
loom.  10 

"  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,^^  said  Mrs.  Winthrop  sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them, 
but  when  he  did  come  to  the  door  he  showed  no  impa- 
tience, as  he  would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that  had 
been  unasked  for  and  unexpected.  Formerly,  his  heart  is 
had  been  as  a  locked  casket  with  its  treasure  inside; 
but  now  the  casket  was  empty,  and  the  lock  was  broken. 
Left  groping  in  darkness,  with  his  prop  utterly  gone, 
Silas  had  inevitably  a  sense,  though  a  dull  and  half- 
despairing  one,  that  if  any  help  came  to  him  it  must  20 
come  from  without;  and  there  was  a  slight  stirring  of 
expectation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow-men,  a  faint  con- 
sciousness of  dependence  on  their  good  will.  He  opened 
the  door  wide  to  admit  Dolly,  but  without  otherwise  re- 
turning her  greeting  than  by  moving  the  armchair  a  few  25 
inches  as  a  sign  that  she  was  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly, 
as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  removed  the  white  cloth  that 
covered  her  lard-cakes,  and  said  in  her  gravest  way — 

"  Fd  a  baking  yisterday,  Master  Marner,  and  the 
lard-cakes  turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  I'd  ha'  30 
asked  you  to  accept  some  if  you'd  thought  well.    I  don't 
eat  such  things  myself,  for  a  bit  o'  bread's  what  I  like 
from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  but  men's  stomichs 


136  SILAS  MARKER 

are  made  so  comical  they  want  a  change — they  do^  I 
know,  God  help  ^em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to  Silas, 
who  thanked  her  kindly,  and  looked  very  close  at  them, 

6  absently,  being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  everything  he 
took  into  his  hand — eyed  all  the  while  by  the  wondering 
bright  orbs  of  the  small  Aaron,  who  had  made  an  out- 
work of  his  mother^s  chair,  and  was  peeping  round  from 
behind  it. 

10  ^'  There's  letters  pricked  on  'em,''  said  Dolly.  "  I 
can't  read  'em  myself,  and  there's  nobody,  not  Mr. 
Macey  himself,  rightly  knows  what  they  mean;  but 
they've  a  good  meaning,  for  they're  the  same  as  is  on 
the  pulpit  cloth  at  church.     What  are  they,  Aaron,  my 

15  dear?" 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork 
"  Oh,  go,  that's  naughty,"  said  his  mother  mildly. 
"  Well,  whativer  the  letters  are,  they've  a  good  meaning; 
and  it's  a  stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben  says, 

20  ever  since  he  was  a  little  un,  and  his  mother  used  to 
put  it  on  the  cakes,  and  I've  allays  put  it  on  too;  for  if 
there's  any  good,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world." 

"  It's  I.  H.  S.,"  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learning 
Aaron  peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

25  "  Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  'em  off,"  said  Dolly. 
"  Ben's  read  'em  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but  they 
slip  out  o'  my  mind  again;  the  more's  the  pity,  for 
they're  good  letters,  else  they  wouldn't  be  in  the  church; 
and  so  I  prick  'em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all  the  cakes, 

80  though  sometimes  they  won't  hold  because  o'  the  rising 


23.  Either  the  first  three  letters  of  the  Greek  name  Jesus,  or  the  ini# 
tials  of  Jesus  Hominum  Salvator  (Jesus  Saviour  of  Men). 


SILAS  MARKER  137 

— for,  as  I  said,  if  there's  any  good  to  be  got  we've 
need  of  it  i'  this  world — that  we  have;  and  I  hope 
they'll  bring  good  to  you.  Master  Marner,  for  it's  wi' 
that  will  I  brought  you  the  cakes,  and  you  see  the  letters 
have  held  better  nor  common."  5 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly, 
but  there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the  de- 
sire to  give  comfort  that  made  itself  heard  in  her  quiet 
tones.  He  said,  with  more  feeling  than  before,  "  Thank 
jou — thank  you  kindly."  But  he  laid  down  the  cakes  lO 
and  seated  himself  absently — drearily  unconscious  of 
any  distinct  benefit  toward  which  the  cakes  and  the 
letters,  or  even  Dolly's  kindness,  could  tend  for  him. 

"  Ah,  if  there's  good  anywhere,  we've  need  of  it," 
repeated  Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a  serviceable  is 
phrase.  She  looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she  went  on. 
'^  But  you  didn't  hear  the  church  bells  this  morning, 
Master  Marner?  I  doubt  you  didn't  know  it  was  Sun- 
day. Living  so  lone  here,  you  lose  your  count,  I  dare 
say;  and  then,  when  your  loom  makes  a  noise,  you  can't  20 
hear  the  bells,  more  partic'lar  now  the  frost  kills  the 
sound." 

"  Yes,  I  did;  I  heard  'em,"  said  Silas,  to  whom  Sun- 
day bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and  not  part 
of  its  sacredness.     There  had  been  no  bells  in  Lantern  25 
Yard. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Dolly,  pausing  before  she  spoke 
again.  "  But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should  work  of  a 
Sunday,  and  not  clean  yourself — ^if  you  didn't  go  to 
church;  for  if  you'd  a  roasting  bit,  it  might  be  as  you  «o 
couldn't  leave  it,  being  a  lone  man.  But  there's  the 
bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  spend  a 
twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then — not  every  week. 


138  SILAS  MARKER 

in  course — I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that  myself — you  might 
carry  your  bit  o'  dinner  there,  for  it's  nothing  but 
right  to  have  a  bit  o'  summat  hot  of  a  Sunday,  and  not 
to  make  it  as  you  can't  know  your  dinner  from  Saturday. 
5  But  now,  upo'  Christmas  Day,  this  blessed  Christmas  as 
is  ever  coming,  if  you  was  to  take  your  dinner  to  the 
bakehus,  and  go  to  church,  and  see  the  holly  and  the 
yew,  and  hear  the  anthim,  and  then  take  the  sacramen', 
you'd  be  a  deal  the  better,  and  you'd  know  which  end 
10  you  stood  on,  and  you  could  put  your  trust  i'  Them  as 
knows  better  nor  we  do,  seein'  you'd  ha'  done  what  it  lies 
on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long 
effort  of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing  per- 
ls suasive  tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to  prevail 
on  a  sick  man  to  take  his  medicine  or  a  basin  of  gruel  for 
which  he  had  no  appetite.  Silas  had  never  before  been 
closely  urged  on  the  point  of  his  absence  from  church, 
which  had  only  been  thought  of  as  a  part  of  his  gen<. 
20  eral  queerness;  and  he  was  too  direct  and  simple  ta 
evade  Dolly's  appeal. 

''  Nay,  nay,"  he  said, ''  I  know  viothing  o'  the  church. 
I've  never  been  to  church." 

^^No!"  said  Dolly,  in  a  low   tone  of  wonderment. 
26  Then  bethinking  herself  of  Sila^'t^  advent  from  an  un- 
known country,  she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as  they'd 
no  church  where  you  was  born?  " 

'^  Oh,  yes,"  said   Silas  meditatively,   sitting  in  his 
usual  posture  of  leaning  on  his  i<:nees  and  supporting  his 
80  head.     ''  There  was  churches  —a  many — it  was  a  big 
town.    But  I  knew  nothing  of  'em — I  went  to  chapel." 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  aL  this  new  word,  but  she 
was  rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  ''  chapel  '^ 


SILAS  MARNER  139 

might  mean  some  haunt  of  wickedness.     After  a  little 
thought  she  said: 

^'  Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  niver  too  late  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  if  youVe  niver  had  no  church, 
there's  no  telling  the  good  it'll  do  you.  For  I  feel  so  set  5 
up  and  comfortable  as  niver  was  when  I've  been  and 
heard  the  prayers,  and  the  singing  to  the  praise  and 
glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  Macey  gives  out — and  Mr.  Cracken- 
thorp  saying  good  words,  and  more  partic'lar  on  Sacra- 
men'  Day;  and  if  a  bit  o'  trouble  comes,  I  feel  as  I  lo 
can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I've  looked  for  help  i'  the  right 
quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to  Them  as  we  must  all  give 
ourselves  up  to  at  the  last;  and  if  we'n  done  our  part,  it 
isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as  are  above  us  'ull  be 
worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o'  Their  n."  15 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Kaveloe  the- 
ology fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for  there 
was  no  word  in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what 
he  had  known  as  religion,  and  his  comprehension  was 
quite  baffled  by  the  plural  pronoun,  which  was  no  heresy  20 
of  Dolly's,  but  only  her  way  of  avoiding  a  presumptuous 
familiarity.  He  remained  silent,  not  feeling  inclined 
to  assent  to  the  part  of  Dolly's  speech  which  he  fully 
understood — her  recommendation  that  he  should  go  to 
church.  Indeed,  Silas  was  so  unaccustomed  to  talk  be-  25 
yond  the  brief  questions  and  answers  necessary  for  the 
transaction  of  his  simple  business-  that  words  did  not 
easily  come  to  him  without  the  urgency  of  a  distinct 
purpose. 

But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the  30 
weaver's  awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's 
side,  and  Silas,  seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time, 
tried  to  return  Dolly's  signs  of  good  will  bv  offering  the 


140  SILAS  MARNER 

lad  a  bit  of  lard-cake.    Aaron  shrank  back  a  little^  and 

rubbed  his  head  against  his  mother^s  shoulder,  but  still 

thought  the  piece  of  cake  worth  the  risk  of  putting  hi& 

hand  out  for  it. 

5         "  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron/^  said  his  mother,  taking 

him  on  her  lap,  however;  "  why,  you  don^t  want  cake 

again  yet  awhile.    He^s  wonderful  hearty,^^  she  went  on, 

with  a  little  sigh;  "  that  he  is,  God  knows.     He^s  my 

youngest,  and  we  spoil  him  sadly,  for  either  me  or  the 

10  father  must  allays  hev  him  in  our  sight — that  we  must.'^ 

She  stroked  Aaron^s  brown  head,  and  thought  it 

must  do  Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "  pictur  of 

a  child.^^    But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth^ 

saw  the  neat-featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim  round,. 

15  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

'^  And  he's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird — you  wouldn't 
think,"  Dolly  went  on;  "  he  can  sing  a  Christm.as  carril 
as  his  father's  taught  him;  and  I  take  it  for  a  token  a& 
he'll  come  to  good,  as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes  so 
20  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan'  up  and  sing  the  carril  to 
Master  Marner,  come." 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  hi^ 
mothers  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  that's  naughty,"  said  Dolly  gently.     "  Stan'^ 
25  up,  when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake.^ 
till  you've  done.'* 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents,  even 
to  an  ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances,  and  after 
a  few  more  signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in  rub- 
so  bing  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then  peep- 
ing between  them  at  Master  Marner  to  see  if  he  looked 
anxious  for  the  "  carril,"  he  at  length  allowed  his  head 
to  be  duly  adjusted,  and  standing  behind  the  table  which 


SILAS  MARKER  141 

let  him  appear  above  it  only  as  far  as  his  broad  frill,  so 
that  he  looked  like  a  cherubic  head  untroubled  with  a 
body,  he  began  with  a  clear  chirp  and  in  a  melody  that 
had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious  hammer:  « 

"  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen,  5 

Let  nothing  you  dismay. 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day." 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Mar- 
ner  in  some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to  lo 
allure  him  to  church. 

'^  That^s  Christmas  music/'  she  said,  when  Aaron 
had  ended  and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again. 
"  There's  no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music 
' — '  Hark  the  erol  angils  sing.'  j\.ndi  you  may  judge  15 
what  it  is  at  church.  Master  Marner,  with  the  bassoon 
and  the  voices,  as  you  can't  help  thinking  you've  got 
to  a  better  place  a'ready — for  I  wouldn't  speak  ill  o' 
this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows  best; 
but  what  wi'  the  drink,  and  the  quarreling,  and  the  bad  20 
illnesses,  and  the  hard  dying,  as  I've  seen  times  and 
times,  one's  thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The  boy  sings 
pretty,  don't  he.  Master  Marner?  "• 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas  absently,  "  very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammerlike  rhythm,  25 
had  fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a 
hymn,  and  could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  contem- 
plated. But  he  wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was  grate- 
ful, and  the  only  mode  that  occurred  to  him  was  to  offer 
Aaron  a  bit  more  cake.  30 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you.  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly, 

15.  erol  angils.    Dolly's  dialect  for  **  herald  angels.'' 


142  SILAS  MARiSrER 

holding  down  Aaron^s  willing  hands.  '^  We  must  he 
going  home  now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-by,  Master 
Marner;  and  if  you  ever  feel  anyways  bad  in  your  in- 
side, as  you  can^t  fend  for  yourself;,  Til  come  and  clean 

5  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  bit  o'  victual,  and  willing. 
But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to  leave  off  weaving  of  a 
Sunday,  for  it^s  bad  for  soul  and  body — and  the  money 
as  comes  i^  that  way  ^ull  be  a  bad  bed  to  lie  down  on 
at  the  last,  if  it  doesn't  fly  away,  nobody  knows  where, 

10  like  the  white  frost.  And  you^ll  excuse  me  being  that 
free  with  you.  Master  Marner,  for  I  wish  you  well — I  do. 
Make  your  bow,  Aaron.^^ 

•^  Silas  said  "  Good-by,  and  thank  you  kindly,^^  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  couldn't  help  feeling 

15  relieved  when  she  was  gone — relieved  that  he  might 
weave  again  and  moan  at  his  ease.  Her  simple  view  of 
life  and  its  comforts,  by  which  she  had  tried  to  cheer 
him,  was  only  like  a  report  of  unknown  objects,  Avhich 
his  imagination  could  not  fashion.     The  fountains  of 

20  human  love  and  of  faith  in  a  divine  love  had  not  yet 
been  unlocked,  and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken 
rivulet,  with  only  this  difference,  that  its  little  groove 
of  sand  was  blocked  up,  and  it  wandered  confusedly 
against  dark  obstruction. 

25  And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions  of 
Mr.  Macey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his  Christ- 
mas Day  in  loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  sadness  of 
heart,  though  the  meat  had  come  to  him  as  a  neighborly 
present.     In  the  morning  he  looked  out  on  the  black 

30  frost  that  seemed  to  press  cruelly  on  every  blade  of  grass, 
while  the  half -icy  red  pool  shivered  under  the  bitter 
wind;  but  toward  evening  the  snow  began  to  fall,  and 
curtained  from  him  even  that  dreary  outlook,  shutting 


SILAS  MARNER  143 

him  close  up  with  his  narrow  grief.  And  he  sat  in  his 
robbed  home  through  the  livelong  evening,  not  caring  to 
close  his  shutters  or  lock  his  door,  pressing  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands  and  moaning,  till  the  cold  grasped  him 
and  told  him  that  his  fire  was  gray.  5 

Xobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was 
the  same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow 
with  tender  love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen  goodness. 
Even  to  himself  that  past  experience  had  become  dim. 

But  in  Eaveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and  10 
the  church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the 
year,  with  red  faces  among  the  abundant  dark-green 
l)oughs — faces  prepared  for  a  longer  service  than  usual 
by  an  odorous  breakfast  of  toast  and  ale.     Those  green 
boughs,   the   hymn   and  anthem   never   heard   but   at  15 
Christmas — even  the  Athanasian  Creed,  which  was  dis- 
criminated from  the  others  only  as  being  longer  and  of 
exceptional  virtue,  since  it  was  only  read  on  rare  occa- 
sions— brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for  which  the 
grown  men  could  as  little  have  found  words  as  the  chil-  20 
dren,  that  something  great  and  mysterious  had  been 
done  for  them  in  heaven  above,  and  in  earth  below, 
which  they  were  appropriating  by  their  presence.    And 
then  the  red  faces  made  their  way  through  the  black 
biting  frost  to  their  own  homes,  feeling  themselves  free  25 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and 
using  that  Christian  freedom  without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cassis  family  party  that  day  nobody  men- 
tioned Dunstan — nobody  was  sorry  for  his  absence,  or 
feared  it  would  be  too  long.     The  doctor  and  his  wife,  80 


16.  Athanasian  Creed.  Formulated  in  the  ninth  century.  Named 
from  Athanasius,  Bishop  of  Alexandria  in  the  fourth  century,  as  incor- 
porating the  ideas  of  the  Trinity  which  he  struggled  to  establish. 


144  SILAS  MARKER 

Uncle  and  Aunt  Kimble^,  were  there,  and  the  annual 
Christmas  talk  was  carried  through  without  any  omis- 
sions, rising  to  the  climax  of  Mr.  Kimble^s  experience 
when  he  walked  the  London  hospitals  thirty  years  back, 

5  together  with  striking  professional  anecdotes  then  gath- 
ered. Whereupon  cards  followed,  with  Aunt  Kimble's 
annual  failure  to  follow  suit,  and  Uncle  Kimble's  irasci- 
bility concerning  the  odd  trick  which  was  rarely  ex- 
plicable to  him,  when  it  w^as  not  on  his  side,  without 

10  a  general  visitation  of  tricks  to  see  that  they  were 
formed  on  sound  principles;  the  whole  being  accom- 
panied by  a  strong  steaming  odor  of  spirits-and- 
water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas  Day,  being  a  strictly 

15  family  party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  cele- 
bration of  the  season  at  the  Eed  House.  It  w^as  the 
great  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve  that  made  the  glory  of 
Squire  Cass's  hospitality,  as  of  his  forefathers',  time  out 
of  mind.    This  was  the  occasion  when  all  the  society  of 

20  Kaveloe  and  Tarley,  whether  old  acquaintances  sepa- 
rated by  long  rutty  distances,  or  cooled  acquaintances 
separated  by  misunderstandings  concerning  runaway 
calves,  or  acquaintances  founded  on  intermittent  con- 
descension,   counted   on   meeting   and    on    comporting 

25  themselves  with  mutual  appropriateness.  This  was  the 
occasion  on  which  fair  dames  who  came  on  pillions  sent 
their  bandboxes  before  them,  supplied  with  more  than 
their  evening  costume;  for  the  feast  was  not  to  end 
with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry  town  entertainment. 

30  where  the  whole  supply  of  eatables  is  put  on  the  table 
at  once  and  bedding  is  scanty.  The  Eed  House  was  pro- 
visioned as  if  for  a  siege;  and  as  for  the  spare  feather- 
beds  ready  to  be  laid  on  floors,  .they  were  as  plentiful  as 


SILAS  MARKER  145 

might  naturally  be  expected  in  a  family  that  had  killed 
its  own  geese  for  many  generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New  Year's 
Eve  with  a  foolish  reckless  longing  that  made  him  half 
deaf  to  his  importunate  companion,  Anxiety.  5 

"  Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon:  there  will  be  a 
great  blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  spite  to 
silence?'"'  said  Anxiety. 

"  Oh,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's  Eve, 
perhaps,"  said  Godfrey;  "  and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy  then  lo 
and  dance  with  her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from  her  in 
-spite  of  herself." 

"  But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said 
Anxiety,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  and  how  will  you  get  it 
without  selling  your  mother's  diamond  pin?     And  if  15 
you  don't  get  it  .  .  .   ?  " 

"  Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things 
easier.  At  any  rate,  there's  one  pleasure  for  me  close 
at  hand — Nancy  is  coming." 

"  Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  matters  20 
to  a  pass  that  will  oblige  you  to  decline  marrying  her 
' — and  to  give  your  reasons?  " 

'^  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  worry  me.  I  can 
see  Nancy's  eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel 
her  hand  in  mine  already."  25 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas 
company,  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much 
drinking. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Some  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advan- 
tage seated  on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in  a  drab  Joseph 
and  a  drab  beaver  bonnet,  with,  a  crown  resembling  a 
small  stew  pan;  for  a  garment  suggesting  a  coachman's 
5  greatcoat,  cut  out  under  an  exiguity  of  cloth  that 
would  only  allow  of  miniature  capes,  is  not  well 
adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour,  nor  is  drab 
a  color  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  lively  con- 
trast.    It  was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss  Nancy 

10  Lammeter's  beauty  that  she  looked  thoroughly  bewitch- . 
ing  in  that  costume,  as,  seated  on  the  pillion  behind 

.  her  tall,  erect  father,  she  held  one  arm  round  him,  and 
looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at  the  treacher- 
ous snow-covered  pools  and  puddles,  which  sent  up  for- 

15  midable  splashings  of  mud  under  the  stamp  of  Dob- 
bin's foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  preferred 
her  in  those  moments  when  she  was  free  from  self-con- 
sciousness; but  certainly  the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was 
at  its  highest  point  of  contrast  with  the  surrounding 

20  drab  when  she  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  Red  House, 
and  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  ready  to  lift  her  from  the 
pillion.  She  wished  her  sister  Priscilla  had  come  up 
at  the  same  time  behind  the  servant,  for  then  she  would 
have   contrived  that  Mr.   Godfrey  should  have  lifted 

25  off  Priscilla  first,   and,  in  the  meantime,   she  would 
146 


SILAS  MARNER  147 

have  persuaded  her  father  to  go  round  to  the  horse- 
block instead  of  alighting  at  the  doorsteps.  It  was 
very  painful  when  you  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  a 
young  man  that  you  were  determined  not  to  marry 
him,  however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would  5 
still  continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions;  besides, 
why  didn^t  he  ahvays  show  the  same  attentions  if  he 
meant  them  sincerely,  instead  of  being  so  strange  as 
Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if  he 
didn't  want  to  speak  to  her,  and  taking  no  notice  of  lo 
her  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all  on  a  sudden, 
almost  making  love  again?  Moreover,  it  was  quite 
plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her,  else  he  would  not 
let  people  have  that  to  say  of  him  which  they  did  say. 
Did  he  suppose  that  Miss  J^ancy  Lammeter  was  to  be  15 
won  by  any  man,  squire  or  no  squire,  who  led  a  bad 
life?  That  was  not  what  she  had  been  used  to  see  in 
her  own  father,  who  was  the  soberest  and  best  man  in 
that  country-side,  only  a  little  hot  and  hasty  now  and 
then  if  things  were  not  done  to  the  minute.  20 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's 
mind,  in  their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments  be- 
tween her  first  sight  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at 
the  door  and  her  own  arrival  there.  Happily,  the 
Squire  came  out  too,  and  gave  a  loud  greeting  to  her  25 
father,  so  that,  somehow,  under  cover  of  this  noise, 
she  seemed  to  find  concealment  for  her  confusion  and 
neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behavior  while  she  was 
being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong  arms  which 
seemed  to  find  her  ridiculously  small  and  light.  And  30 
there  was  the  best  reason  for  hastening  into  the  house 
at  once,  since  the  snow  was  beginning  to  fall  again, 
threatening  an  unpleasant  journey  for  such  guests  as 


148  SILAS  MARNEK 

were  still  on  the  road.  These  were  a  small  minority ; 
for  already  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to  decline,  and 
there  would  not  be  too  much  time  for  the  ladies  who 
came  from  a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in  readiness 
5  for  the  early  tea  which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the 
dance. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  through  the  house  as 
Miss  ^ancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fiddle 
preluding  in  the   kitchen;    but  the  Lammeters  were 

io  guests  whose  arrival  had  evidently  been  thought  of  so 
much  that  it  had  been  watched  for  from  the  windows, 
for  Mrs.  Kimble,  who  did  the  honors  at  the  Eed  House 
on  the^e  great  occasions,  came  forward  to  meet  Miss 
l^ancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her   upstairs.     Mrs. 

15  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister,  as  well  as  the  doctor's 
wife — a  double  dignity,  with  which  her  diameter  was 
in  direct  proportion,  so  that,  a  journey  upstairs  being 
rather  fatiguing  to  her,  she  did  not  oppose  Miss  Nancy^s 
request  to  be  allowed  to  find  her  way  alone  to  the 

20  Blue  Eoom,  where  the  Miss  Lammeters'  bandboxes  had 
been  deposited  on  their  arrival  in  the  morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where 
feminine  compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine 
toilettes  going  forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  made 

25 scanty  by  extra  beds  spread  upon  the  floor;  and  Miss 
Nancy,  as  she  entered  the  Blue  Eoom,  had  to  make 
her  little  formal  courtesy  to  a  group  of  six.  On  the 
one  hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less  important  than 
the  two  Miss  Gunns,  the  wine  merchant's  daughters 

30  from  Lytherly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with 
the  tightest  skirts  and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed 
at  by  Miss  Ladbrook  (of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shy- 
ness not  unsustained  by  inward  criticism.     Partly,  Miss 


SILAS  MARNER  X4:9 

Ladbrook  felt  that  her  own  skirts  must  oe  regarded  as 
unduly  lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  partly  that  it  was 
a  pity  the  Miss  Gunns  did  not  show  that  judgment 
which  she  herself  would  show  if  she  were  in  their  place, 
by  stopping  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  fashion.  On  6 
the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Ladbrook  was  standing  in  skull- 
cap and  front,  with  her  turban  in  her  hand,  courtesying 
and  smiling  blandly  and  saying,  "  After  you,  ma'am,'^ 
to  another  lady  in  similar  circumstances,  who  had  po- 
litely offered  the  precedence  at  the  looking-glass.  10 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  courtesy 
than  an  elderly  lady  camfe  ^forward,  whose  full  white 
muslin  kerchief  and  mob-cap  round  her  curls  of  smooth 
gray  hair  were  in  daring  contrast  with  the  puffed  yel- 
low satins  and  top-knotted  caps  of  her  neighbors.  She  i?> 
approached  Miss  ISTancy  with  much  primness,  and  said, 
with  a  slow,  treble  suavity — 

"  Mece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health.^^     Miss 
i^ancy  kissed  her  aunt^s  cheek  dutifully,  and  answered, 
with  the  same  sort  of  amiable  primness:  ^^  Quite  well,  20 
I  thank  you,  aunt,  and  I  hope  I  see  you  the  same.^^ 

"  Thank  you,  niece,  I  keep  my  health  for  the  pres- 
ent.    And  how  is  my  brother-in-law?'^ 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  continued 
until  it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lammeters  25 
were  all  as  well  as  usual,  and  the  Osgoods  likewise, 
also  that  Niece  Priscilla  must  certainly  arrive  shortly, 
and  that  traveling  on  pillions  in  snowy  weather  was 
unpleasant,  though  a  Joseph  was  a  great  protection. 
Then  Nancy  was  formally  introduced  to  her  aunt's  30 
visitors,  the  Miss  Gunns,  as  being  the  daughters  of  a 
mother  known  to  their  mother,  though  now  for  the 
iirst  time  induced  to  make  a  journey  into  these  parts;    . 


150  SILAS  MARNER 

and  these  ladies  were  so  taken  by  surprise  at  finding 
such  a  lovely  face  and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way  coun- 
try place,  that  they  began  to  feel  some  curiosity  about 
the   dress  she  would  put  on  when  she   took  off  her 
5  Joseph.     Miss  Nancy,  whose  thoughts  were  always  con- 
ducted with  the  propriety  and  moderation  conspicuous 
in  her  manners,   remarked  to  herself  that   the   Miss 
Gunns  were  rather  hard-featured  than  otherwise,  and 
that  such  very  low  dresses  as  they  wore  might  have 
10  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their  shoulders  had  been 
pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they  were,  it  was  not  rea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  they  showed  their  necks  from 
a  love  of  display,  but  rather  from  some  obligation  not 
inconsistent  with  sense   and  modesty.     She   felt  con- 
is  vinced,  as  she  opened  her  box,  that  this  must  be  her 
Aunt  Osgood's  opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's  mind  resem- 
bled her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  everybody  said  was 
surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was  on  Mr.  Osgood's 
side;  and  though  you  might  not  have  supposed  it  from 
20  the  formality  of  their  greeting,  there  was  a  devoted 
attachment  and  mutual  admiration  between  aunt  and 
niece.     Even  Miss  Nancy's  refusal  of  her  cousin  Gil- 
bert  Osgood   (on  the  ground  solely  that  he  was  her 
cousin),  though  it  had  grieved  her  aunt  greatly,  had 
25  not  in  the  least  cooled  the  preference  which  had  de- 
termined her  to  leave  Nancy  several  of  her  hereditary 
ornaments,  let  Gilbert's  future  wife  be  whom  she  might. 
Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss 
Gunns  were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's  inclina- 
30  tion  to  remain  with  her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason 
for  staying  to  see  the  rustic  beauty's  toilet.     And  it 
was  really  a  pleasure — from  the  first  opening  of  the 
bandbox,  where  everything  smelled  of  lavender  and  rose 


SILAS  MARNER  151 

leaves,  to  the  clasping  of  the  small  coral  necklace  that 
fitted  closely  round  her  little  white  neck.  Everything 
belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity  and 
nattiness:  not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business 
to  be,  not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed  whiteness  with-  5 
out  fulfilling  its  profession;  the  very  pins  on  her  pin- 
cushion were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which  she 
was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration;  and  as  for  her  own 
person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect  unvarying  neat- 
ness as  the  body  of  a  little  bird.  It  is  true  that  her  lo 
light  brown  hair  was  cropped  behind  like  a  boy's,  and 
was  dressed  in  front  in  a  number  of  flat  rings,  that 
lay  quite  away  from  her  face;  but  there  was  no  sort 
of  coiffure  that  could  make  Miss  Nancy's  cheek  and 
neck  look  otherwise  than  pretty;  and  when  at  last  she  15 
stood  complete  in  her  silvery  twilled  silk,  her  lace 
tucker,  her  coral  necklace,  and  coral  eardrops,  the  Miss 
Grunns  could  see  nothing  to  criticise  except  her  hands, 
which  bore  the  traces  of  butter-  making,  cheese  crush- 
ing, and  even  still  coarser  work.  But  Miss  Nancy  was  20 
not  ashamed  of  that,  for  while  she  was  dressing  she 
narrated  to  her  aunt  how  she  and  Priscilla  had  packed 
their  boxes  yesterday,  because  this  morning  was  bak- 
ing morning,  and  since  they  were  leaving  home,  it  was 
desirable  to  make  a  good  supply  of  meat  pies  for  the  25 
kitchen;  and  as  she  concluded  this  judicious  remark, 
she  turned  to  the  Miss  Gunns  that  she  might  not  com- 
mit the  rudeness  of  not  including  them  in  the  con- 
versation. The  Miss  Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought 
what  a  pity  it  was  that  "these  rich  country  people,  who  30 
could  afford  to  buy  such  good  clothes  (really  Miss 
Nancy's  lace  and  silk  were  very  costly),  should  be 
brought  up  in  utter  ignorance  and  vulgarity.     She  ac- 


152  SILAS  MARNER 

tually  said  ^^mate^^  for  ^^ meat/^  "/appen"  for  "per- 
haps/^ and  "  ^oss  '^  for  "  horse/^  which,  to  young  ladies 
living  in  good  Lytherly  society,  who  habitually  said 
^orse,  even  in  domestic  privacy,  and  only  said  ^appen 
5  on  the  right  occasions,  was  necessarily  shocking.  Miss 
Nancy,  indeed,  had  never  been  to  any  school  higher 
than  Dame  Tedman^s:  her  acquaintance  with  profane 
literature  hardly  went  beyond  the  rhymes  she  had 
worked  in  her  large  sampler  under  the  lamb  and  the 

10  shepherdess;  and  in  order  to  balance  an  account,  she 
was  obliged  to  effect  her  subtraction  by  removing  visi- 
ble metallic  shillings  and  sixpences  from  a  visible  me- 
tallic total.  There  is  hardly  a  servant  maid  in  these 
days  who  is  not  better  informed  than  Miss  Nancy;  yet 

15  she  had  the  essential  attributes  of  a  lady — high  verac- 
ity, delicate  honor  in  her  dealings,  deference  to  others, 
and  refined  personal  habits — and  lest  these  should  not 
suffice  to  convince  grammatical  fair  ones  that  her  feel- 
ings can  at  all  resemble  theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was 

20  slightly  proud  and  exacting,  and  as  constant  in  her 
affection  toward  a  baseless  opinion  as  toward  an  erring 
lover. 

The  anxiety  about  Sister  Priscilla,  which  had  grown 
rather  active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  was  clasped, 

25  was  happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheerful- 
looking  lady  herself,  with  a  face  made  blowsy  by  cold 
and  damp.  After  the  first  questions  and  greetings,  she 
turned  to  Nancy  and  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot 
— then  wheeled  her  round,  to  ascertain  that  the  back 

30  view  was  equally  faultless. 

"  What  do  you  think  o^  tJiese  gowns,  Aunt  Osgood  ?  '^ 
said  Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 
"  Very  handsome  indeed,  niece,^^  said  Mrs.  Osgood, 


SILAS  MARNER  I53 

with  a  slight  increase  of  formality.     She  always  thought 
Kiece  Priscilla  too  rough. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  ISTancy,  you  know, 
for  all  I'm  five  years  older,  and  it  makes  me  look  yal- 
low ;  for  she  never  will  have  anything  without  I  have  5 
mine  just  like  it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like 
gisters.     And  I  tell  her  folks  'ull  think  it's  my  weak- 
aess  makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall  look  pretty  in  what  she 
looks  pretty  in.     For  I  am  ugly — there's  no  denying 
that :  I  feature  my  father's  family.     But,  law !  I  don't  10 
mind,  do  you?'^    Priscilla  here  turned  to  the   Miss 
Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much  preoccupation  with  the 
delight  of  talking  to  notice  that  her  candor  was  not 
appreciated.      "  The  pretty  nns   do   for  flycatchers — 
they  keep  the  men  off  us.    I've  no  opinion  o'  the  men,  15 
Miss  Gunn — I  don't  know  what  you  have.     And  as  for 
fretting  and  stewdng  about  •what  they'll  think  of  you 
from  morning  till  night,  and  making  your  life  uneasy 
about  what  they're   doing  when  they're   out   o'  your 
sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it's  a  folly  no  woman  need  be  2C 
guilty  of,  if  she's  got  a  good  father  and  a  good  home: 
let  her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and 
can't  help  themselves.     As  I  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own- 
way  is  the  best  husband,  and  the  only  one  I'd  ever  prom- 
ise to  obey.     I  know  it  isn't  pleasant,  when  you've  been  25 
used  to  living  in  a  big  way,  and  managing  hogsheads 
and  all  that,  to  go  and  put  your  nose  in  by  somebody 
else's  fireside,  or  to  sit  down  by  yourself  to  a  scrag  or 
a  knuckle;  but,  thank  God!  my  father's  a  sober  man 
and  likely  to  live;  and  if  you've  got  a  man  by  the  chim-  so 
ney  corner,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he's  childish — the  busi- 
ness needn't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gowp 


154  SILAS  MARNER 

over  her  head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls 
obliged  Miss  Priscilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of 
life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood  seized  the  opportunity  of  rising 
and  saying: 
5  "  Well,  niece,  you'll  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunng 
will  like  to  go  down.'' 

"  Sister,"    said    Nancy,    when    they    were    alone, 
^^  you've  offended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"What  have  I  done,  child?"  said  Priscilla,  in  some 

XO  alarm. 

"  Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being 
ugly — you're  so  very  blunt." 

"Law,  did  I?     Well,  it  popped  out;  it's  a  mercy 
I  said  no  more,  for  I'm  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks 

15  when  they  don't  like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being 
ugly,  look  at  me,  child,  in  this  silver-colored  silk — I 
told  you  how  it  'ud  be — I  look  as  yallow  as  a  daffa- 
dil.  Anybody  'ud  say  you  wanted  to  make  a  mawkin 
of  me." 

20        "  No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.     I  begged  and  prayed 
of  you  not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you'd  like  an- 
other better.     I  was  willing  to  have  your  choice,  you 
know  I  was,''  said  Nancy,  in  anxious  self -vindication. 
"  Nonsense,  child !  you  know  you'd  set  your  heart 

25  on  this;  and  reason  good,  for  you're  the  color  o'  cream. 
It  'ud  be  fine  doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit 
my  skin.     What  I  find  fault  with  is  that  notion  o'  yours 

•  as  I  must  dress  myself  just  like  you.  But  you  do  as 
you  like  with  me — you  always  did  from  when  first  you 

30  begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the  field's  length, 
the  field's  length  you'd  go;  and  there  was  no  whipping 
you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  innicent  as  a  daisy  all 
the  while." 


SILAS  MARNER  155 

I  ^^  Priscy/^  said  Nancy  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral 
necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla's  neck, 
which  was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  "  Tm  sure 
Fm  willing  to  give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who 
shouldn't  dress  alike  if  it  isn't  sisters?  Would  you  have  5 
us  go  about  looking  as  if  we  were  no  kin  to  one  an- 
other— us  that  have  got  no  mother  and  not  another 
sister  in  the  world?  I'd  do  what  was  right,  if  I  dressed 
in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese  coloring;  and  I'd  rather 
you'd  choose,  and  let  me  wear  what  pleases  you."  lo 

"  There  you  go  again !  You'd  come  round  to  the 
same  thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday  night 
till  Saturday  morning.  It'll  be  fine  fun  to  see  how 
you'll  master  your  husband  and  never  raise  your  voice 
above  the  singing  o'  the  kettle  all  the  while.  I  like  to  is 
see  the  .men  mastered!  " 

"Don't    talk    so,    Priscy,"    said    ]!^ancy,    blushing. 
"  You  know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  married." 

"  Oh,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's   end ! "   said 
Priscilla,  as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and  closed  20 
her  bandbox.     "Who  shall  I  have  to  work  for  when 
father's  gone,  if  you  are  to  go  and  take  notions  in  your 
head  and  be  an  old  maid,  because  some  folks  are  no 
better  than  they  should  be  ?     I  haven't  a  bit  o'  patience 
with  you — sitting  on  an  addled  egg  forever,  as  if  there  25 
was  never  a  fresh  un  in  the  world.     One  old  maid's 
enough  out  o'  two  sisters;  and  I  shall  do  credit  to  a 
single  life,  for  God  A'mighty  meant  me  for  it.     Come, 
we  can  go  down  now.     I'm  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  can 
be — there's  nothing  a-wanting  to  frighten  the  crows,  30 
now  I've  got  my  ear-droppers  in." 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the  large 
parlor  together,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  char- 


156  SILAS  MARNER 

acter  of  both  might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the 
reason  why  the  square-shouldered,  clumsy,  high-fea- 
tured Priscilla  wore  a  dress  the  facsimile  of  her  pretty 
sister's  was  either  the  mistaken  vanity  of  the  one,  or  the 
5  malicious  contrivance  of  the  other  in  order  to  set  off 
her  own  rare  beauty.  But  the  good-natured  self -for- 
getful cheeriness  and  common  sense  of  Priscilla  would 
soon  have  dissipated  the  one  suspicion;  and  the  modest 
calm  of  Nancy^s  speech  and  manners  told  clearly  of  a 

io  mind  free  from  all  disavowed  devices. 

Places  of  honor  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss  Lam- 
meters  near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea  table  in  the 
wainscoted  parlor,  now  looking  fresh  and  pleasant  with 
handsome  branches  of  holly,  yew,  and  laurel,  from  the 

15  abundant  growths  of  the  old  garden;  and  Nancy  felt 
an  inward  flutter,  that  no  firmness  of  purpose  could 
prevent,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  advancing 
to  lead  her  to  a  seat  between  himself  and  Mr.  Cracken- 
thorp,  while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the  opposite  side 
\/  20  between  her  father  and  the  Squire.  It  certainly  did 
make  some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the  lover  she  had 
given  up  was  the  young  man  of  quite  the  highest  con- 
sequence in  the  parish — at  home  in  a  venerable  and 
unique  parlor,  which  was  the  extremity  of  grandeui' 

25  in  her  experience,  a  parlor  where  she  might  one  day 
have  been  mistress,  with  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
spoken  of  as  ''  Madam  Cass,^^  the  Squire's  wife.  These 
circumstances  exalted  her  inward  drama  in  her  own 
eyes,  and  deepened  the  emphasis  with  which  she  de- 

30  clared  to  herself  that  not  the  most  dazzling  rank  should 
induce  her  to  marry  a  man  whose  conduct  showed  him 
careless  of  his  character,  but  that,  "love  once,  love  al- 
ways/^ was  the  motto  of  a  true  and  pure  woman,  and 


SILAS  MARNER  157 

no  man  should  ever  have  any  right  over  her  which 
would  be  a  call  on  her  to  destroy  the  dried  flowers  that 
she  treasured,  and  always  would  treasure,  for  Godfrey 
Cass's  sake.  And  Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping  her 
word  to  herself  under  very  trying  conditions.  Nothing  5 
but  a  becoming  blush  betrayed  the  moving  thoughts 
that  urged  themselves  upon  her  as  she  accepted  the 
seat  next  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp;  for  she  was  so  instinc- 
tively neat  and  adroit  in  all  her  actions,  and  her  pretty 
lips  met  each  other  with  such  quiet  firmness,  that  it  lo 
would  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  rector'^  practice  to  let  a  charming 
blush  pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply  a 
merry-eyed,  small-featured,  gray-haired  man,  with  his  15 
chin  propped  by  an  ample,  many-creased  white  neck- 
cloth, which  seemed  to  predominate  over  every  other 
point  in  his  person,  and  somehow  to  impress  its  pe- 
culiar character  on  his  remarks;  so  that  to  have  con- 
sidered his  amenities  apart  from  his  cravat  would  have  20 
been  a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort  of  ab- 
straction. 

"  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,''  he  said,  turning  his  head  with- 
in his  cravat,  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her, 
"^  when  anybody  pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  win-  25 
ter,  I  shall  tell  them  I  saw  the  roses  blooming  on  New 
Year's  Eve — eh,  Godfrey,  what  do  you  say?  " 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at 
Nancy  very  markedly;  for  though  these  complimen- 
tary personalities  were  held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in  30 
old-fashioned  Eaveloe  society,  reverent  love  has  a  po- 
liteness of  its  own  which  it  teaches  to  men  otherwise 
of  siaaall  schooling.     But  the  Squire  was  rather  impa- 


158  SILAS   MARNER 

tient  at  Godfrey's  showing  himself  a  dull  spark  in  this 
way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of  the  day,  the  Squire 
was  always  in  higher  spirits  than  we  have  seen  him  in 
at  the  breakfast  table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant  to  ful- 
5  fill  the  hereditary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial  and  pat- 
ronizing: the  large  silver  snuffbox  was  in  active  service, 
and  was  offered  without  fail  to  all  neighbors  from  time 
to  time,  however  often  they  might  have  declined  the 
favor.     At  present,  the  Squire  had  only  given  an  ex- 

10  press  welcome  to  the  heads  of  families  as  they  appeared; 
but  always  as  the  evening  deepened,  his  hospitality 
rayed  out  more  widely,  till  he  had  tapped  the  youngest 
guests  on  the  back  and  shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for 
their  presence,  in  the  full  belief  that  they  must  feel 

15  their  lives  made  happy  by  their  belonging  to  a  parish 
where  there  was  such  a  hearty  man  as  Squire  Cass  to 
invite  them  and  wish  them  well.  Even  in  this  earlj 
stage  of  the  jovial  mood,  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
wish  to  supply  his  son's  deficiencies  by  looking  and 

20  speaking  for  him. 

"  Ay,  ay,''  he  began,  offering  his  snuffbox  to  Mr. 
Lammeter,  who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head 
and  waved  his  hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  ''  us 
old  fellows  may  wish  ourselves  young  to-night,  when 

25  we  see  the  mistletoe  bough  in  the  White  Parlor.  It's 
true,  most  things  are  gone  back'ard  in  these  last  thirty 
years — the  country's  going  down  since  the  old  king 
fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at  Miss  ISTancy  here,  I  begin 
to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their  quality — ding  me 

30  if  I  remember  a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I  was 
a  fine  young  fellow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my  pig- 

27.  the  old  king.     The  reference  is  to  the  insanity  of  George  III. 


f-  SILAS  MARNER  I59 

tail.  ISTo  offense  to  you,  madam/^  he  added,  bending 
to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  sat  by  him,  "  I  didn't  know 
you  when  you  were  as  young  as  Miss  Nancy  here.'^ 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp — a  small,  blinking  woman,  who 
fidgeted  incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  golds 
chain,  turning  her  head  about  and  making  subdued 
noises,  very  much  like  a  guinea  pig,  that  twitches  its 
nose  and  soliloquizes  in  all  company  indiscriminately — 
now  blinked  and  fidgeted  toward  the  Squire,  and  said, 
''  Oh,  no — no  offense.^'  10 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to  Nancy 
was  felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  diplomatic 
significance;  and  her  father  gave  a  slight  additional 
erectness  to  his  back  as  he  looked  across  the  table  at 
her  with  complacent  gravity.  That  grave  and  orderly  15 
senior  was  not  going  to  bate  a  jot  of  his  dignity  by 
seeming  elated  at  the  notion  of  a  match  between  his 
family  and  the  Squire's:  he  was  gratified  by  any  honor 
paid  to  his  daughter;  but  he  must  see  an  alteration 
in  several  ways  before  his  consent  would  be  vouchsafed.  20 
His  spare  but  healthy  person,  and  high-featured  firm 
face,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  flushed  by 
excess,  was  in  strong  contrast,  not  only  with  the 
Squire's,  but  with  the  appearance  of  the  Kaveloe  farm- 
ers generally — in  accordance  with  a  favorite  saying  of  25 
his  own,  that  "breed  was  stronger  than  pasture." 

"  Miss  Nancy's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother  was, 
though;  isn't  she,  Kimble?  "  said  the  stout  lady  of  that 
name,  looking  round  for  her  husband. 

But  Dr.  Kimble  (country  apothecaries  in  old  days  30 
enjoyed    that    title    without    authority    of    diploma), 
being  a  thin  and  agile  man,   was  flitting  about   the 
room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  making  himself 


160  SILAS  MARNER 

agreeable  to  his  feminine  patients,  with,  medical  im- 
partiality, and  being  welcomed  everywhere  as  a  doctor 
by  hereditary  right — not  one  of  those  miserable  apothe- 
caries who  canvass  for  practice  in  strange  neighbor- 
6  hoods,  and  spend  all  their  income  in  starving  their  one 
horse,  but  a  man  of  substance,  able  to  keep  an  extrava- 
gant table  like  the  best  of  his  patients.  Time  out  of 
mind  the  Eaveloe  doctor  had  been  a  Kimble;  Kimble 
was  inherently  a  doctor's  name;  and  it  was  difficult  to 

ic  contemjDlate  firmly  the  melancholy  fact  that  the  actual 
Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his  practice  might  one  day 
be  handed  over  to  a  successor,  with  the  incongruous 
name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in  that  case  the  wiser 
people  in  Eaveloe  would  employ  Dr.  Blick,  of  Flitton — 

15  as  less  unnatural. 

''  Did  you  speak  to  me, -my  dear?  ^^  said  the  authen- 
tic doctor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side;  but,  as  if 
foreseeing  that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  repeat  her  remark,  he  went  on  immediately:  "  Ha, 

20  Miss  Priscilla,  the  sight  of  you  revives  the  taste  of  that 
super-excellent  pork  pie.  I  hope  the  batch  isn't  near 
an  end.'^ 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,^^  said  Priscilla;  "  but  I'll 
answer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.     My  pork  pies 

^  don't  turn  out  well  by  chance." 

"  Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble  ? — ^because 
folks  forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh?'^  said  the  Squire, 
who  regarded  physic  and  doctors  as  many  loyal  church- 
men regard  the  church  and  the  clergy— tasting  a  joke 

30  against  them  when  he  was  in  health,  but  impatiently 
eager  for  their  aid  when  anything  was  the  matter  with 
him.  He  tapped  his  box,  and  looked  round  with  a  tri- 
umphant laugh. 


SILAS  MARNER  161 

"  Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla  has/* 
said  the  doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to 
a  lady  rather  than  allow  a  brother-in-law  that  advan- 
tage over  him.  "  She  saves  a  little  pepper  to  sprinkle 
over  her  talk— that's  the  reason  why  she  never  puts  5 
too  much  into  her  pies.  There's  my  wife  now,  she 
never  has  an  answer  at  her  tongue's  end;  but  if  I  of- 
fend her,  she's  sure  to  scarify  my  throat  with  black 
pepper  the  next  day,  or  else  give  me  the  colic  with 
watery  greens.  That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat."  Here  lo 
the  vivacious  doctor  made  a  pathetic  grimace. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 
laughing  above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-humor, 
aside  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and  nodded, 
and  amiably  intended  to  smile,  but  the  intention  lost  15 
itself  in  small  twitchings  and  noises. 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in 
your  profession,  Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge  against  a 
patient,"  said  the  rector. 

"Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients,"  20 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  "  except  when  they  leave  us;  and 
then,  you  see,  we  haven't  the  chance  of  prescribing  for 
'em.  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  continued,  suddenly  skip- 
ping to  iSTancy's  side,  "you  won't  forget  your  promise? 
You're  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you  know."  25 

"  Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  f or'ard," 
said  the  Squire.  "  Give  the  young  uns  fair  play. 
There's  my  son  Godfrey'll  be  wanting  to  have  a  round  ^ 
with  you  if  you  run  off  with  Miss  Nancy.  He's  be- 
spoke her  for  the  first  dance,  I'll  be  bound.  Eh,  sir!  sa 
what  do  you  say?"  he  continued,  throwing  himself 
backward,  and  looking  at  Godfrey.  "Haven't  you 
asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance  with  you?" 


162  SILAS  MARNER 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  significant 
insistence  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think  where  it 
would  end  by  the  time  his  father  had  set  his  usual 
hospitable  example  of  drinking  before  and  after  sup- 
5  per,  saw  no  course  open  but  to  turn  to  Nancy  and  say, 
with  as  little  awkwardness  as  possible — 

"  No,  Tye  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she'll  con- 
sent^-if  somebody  else  hasn't  been  before  me." 

^^  No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy  quietly, 

10  though    blushingly.      (If    Mr.    Godfrey    founded    any 

hopes  on  her  consenting  to  dance  with  him  he  would 

soon  be  undeceived,  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  to 

be  uncivil.) 

"  Then  I  hope  you've  no  objections  to  dancing  with 

15  me,"  said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense  that 

there  was  anything  uncomfortable  in  this  arrangement. 

"  No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

^^  Ah,  well,  you're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said 
Uncle  Kimble;  ^^  but  you're  my  godson,  so  I  won't  stand 
20  in  your  way.  Else  I'm  not  so  very  old,  eh,  my  dear?  " 
he  went  on,  skipping  to  his  wife's  side  again.  "  You 
wouldn't  mind  my  having  a  second  after  you  were  gone 
— not  if  I  cried  a  good  deal  first?  " 

"  Come,   come,  take  a  cup   o'  tea  and  stop   your 

25  tongue,  do,"  said  good-humored  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling 

some  pride  in  a  husband  who  must  be  regarded  as  so 

clever  and  amusing  by  the  company  generally.     If  he 

had  only  not  been  irritable  at  cards! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enlivening 
30  the  tea  in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  approach- 
ing within  a  distance  at  which  it  could  be  heard  dis- 
tinctly made  the  young  people  look  at  each  other  with 
sympathetic  impatience  for  the  end  of  the  meal. 


SILAS  MARNER  163 

"  Why,  there's  Solomon  in  the  hall/'  said  the  Squire, 
'^  and  playing  my  f  av'rite  tune,  I  believe — '  The  flaxen- 
headed  ploughboy' — he's  for  giving  us  a  hint  as  we 
aren't  enough  in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob/'  he 
called  out  to  his  third  long-legged  son,  who  was  at  the  5 
other  end  of  the  room,  "  open  the  door,  and  tell  Solo- 
mon to  come  in.     He  shall  give  us  a  tune  here." 

Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as  he 
walked,  for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  tune.  lo 

"  Here,  Solomon,"  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  pat- 
ronage. "  Bound  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it  was 
^The  flaxen-headed  ploughboy':  there's  no  finer  tune." 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small,  hale  old  man  with  an 
abundant  crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to  15 
his  shoulders,  advanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing 
reverently  while  he  fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he 
respected  the  company,  though  he  respected  the  key- 
note more.  As  soon  as  he  had  repeated  the  tune  and 
lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  to  the  Squire  and  20 
the  rector,  and  said,  "  I  hope  I  see  your  honor  and 
your  reverence  well,  and  wishing  you  health  and  long 
life  and  a  happy  New  Year.  And  wishing  the  same  to 
you,  Mr.  Lammeter,  sir;  and  to  the  other  gentlemen, 
and  the  madams,  and  the  young  lasses."  25 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all 
directions  solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in  due 
respect.  But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to  pre- 
lude, and  fell  into  the  tune  which  he  knew  would  be 
taken  as  a  special  compliment  by  Mr.  Lammeter.  30 

"  Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye/'  said  Mr.  Lam- 
meter, when  the  fiddle  paused  again.  "  That's  '  Over 
the  hills  and  far  away/  that  is.     My  father  used  to  say 


164  SILAS  MARNER 

to  me  whenever  we  heard  that  tune,  ^  Ah,  lad,  I  come 
from  over  the  hills  and  far  away/  There's  a  many 
tunes  I  donH  make  head  or  tail  of;  but  that  speaks  to 
me  like  the  blackbird's  whistle.  I  suppose  it's  the 
6  name;  there's  a  deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude 
again,  and  presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  "  Sir 
Eoger  de  Coverley,"  at  which  there  was  a  sound  of 
chairs  pushed  back,  and  laughing  voices. 

10  "  Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means,"  said 
the  Squire,  rising.  "It's  time  to  begin  the  dance,  eh? 
Lead  the  way,  then,  and  we'll  all  follow  you." 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  playing  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the  head 

15  of  the  gay  procession  into  the  White  Parlor,  where 
the  mistletoe  bough  was  hung,  and  multitudinous  tal- 
low candles  made  rather  a  brilliant  effect,  gleaming 
from  among  the  berried  holly  boughs,  and  reflected  in 
the  old-fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened  in  the  panels  of 

20  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  procession!  Old  Solo- 
mon, in  his  seedy  clothes  and  long  white  locks,  seemed 
to  be  luring  that  decent  company  by  the  magic  scream 
of  his  fiddle — luring  discreet  matrons  in  turban-shaped 
caps,  nay,  Mrs.   Crackenthorp  herself,  the  summit  of 

55  whose  perpendicular  feather  was  on  a  level  with  the 
Squire's  shoulder — luring  fair  lasses  complacently  con- 
scious of  very  short  waists  and  skirts  blameless  of  front 
folds — luring  burly  fathers,  in  large  variegated  waist- 
coats, and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and  sheep- 

30  ish,  in  short  nether  garments  and  very  long  coattails. 
Already,  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  vil- 
lagers, who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these  great 
occasions,  were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them  near 


SILAS  MARNER  165 

the  door;  and  great  was  the  admiration  and  satisfac- 
tion in  that  quarter  when  the  couples  had  formed 
themselves  for  the  dance,  and  the  Squire  led  off  with 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining  hands  with  the  rector  and 
Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was  as  it  should  be — that  was  what  5 
everybody  had  been  used  to — and  the  charter  of  Eave- 
loe  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was 
not  thought  of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old 
and  middle-aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting 
down  to  cards,  but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties,  lo 
For  what  were  these  if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropri- 
ate times,  interchanging  visits  and  poultry  with  due 
frequency,  paying  each  other  old-established  compli- 
ments in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing  well-tried 
personal  jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and  drink  is 
too  much  out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drinking 
too  much  in  your  neighbor's  house  to  show  that  you 
liked  your  cheer?  And  the  parson  naturally  set  an 
example  in  these  social  duties.  For  it  would  not  have 
been  possible  for  the  Raveloe  mind,  without  a  peculiar  20 
revelation,  to  know  that  a  clergyman  should  be  a  pale- 
faced  memento  of  solemnities,  instead  of  a  reasonably 
faulty  man,  whose  exclusive  authority  to  read  prayers 
and  preach,  to  christen,  marry,  and  bury  you,  neces- 
sarily co-existed  with  the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground  2S 
to  be  buried  in,  and  to  take  tithe  in  kind;  on  which 
last  point,  of  course,  there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but 
not  to  the  extent  of  irreligion — not  of  deeper  signifi- 
cance than  the  grumbling  at  the  rain,  which  was  by  no 
means  accompanied  with  a  spirit  of  impious  defiance,  so 
but  with  a  desire  that  the  prayer  for  fine  weather  might 
be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  rector's  dan- 


166  SILAS  MARNER 

cing  should  not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of 
things  quite  as  much  as  the  Squire^s,  or  why,  on  the 
other  hand,  Mr.  Macey^s  official  respect  should  restrain 
him  from  subjecting  the  parson^s  performance  to  that 
6  criticism  with  which  minds  of  extraordinary  acuteness 
must  necessarily  contemplate  the  doings  of  their  fal- 
lible fellow-men. 

"  The  Squire^s  pretty  springe,  considering  his 
weight/^  said  Mr.  Macey,  ''  and  he  stamps  uncommon 

ID  well.  But  Mr.  Lammeter  beats  ^em  all  for  shapes:  you 
see,  he  holds  his  head  like  a  sodger,  and  he  isnH  so 
cushiony  as  most  o'  the  oldish  gentlefolks — they  run 
fat  in  general;  and  he's  got  a  fine  leg.  The  parson's 
nimble  enough,  but  he  hasn't  got  much  of  a  leg:  it's 

It)  a  bit  too  thick  down'ard,  and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit 
nearer  wi'out  damage;  but  he  might  do  worse,  he  might 
do  worse.  Though  he  hasn't  that  grand  way  o'  waving 
his  hand  as  the  Squire  has." 

"  Talk  o'  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.   Osgood,"  said 

20  Ben  Winthrop,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  between 
his  knees.  "  She  trips  along  with  her  little  steps,  so 
as  nobody  can  see  how  she  goes — it's  like  as  if  she  had 
little  wheels  to  her  feet.  She  doesn't  look  a  day  older 
nor  last  year:  she's  the  finest  made  woman  as  is,  let 

25  the  next  be  where  she  will." 

"  I  don't  heed  how  the  women  are  made,"  said  Mr. 
Macey,  with  some  contempt.  "  They  wear  nayther 
coat  nor  breeches;  you  can't  make  much  out  o'  their 
shapes." 

80  "  Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beat- 
ing out  the  tune,  "how  does  that  big  cock's  feather 
stick  in  Mrs.  Crackenthorp's  yead?  Is  there  a  little 
hole  for  it^  like  in  my  shuttlecock?" 


SILAS  MARNER  167 

"Hush,  lad,  hush;  that's  the  way  the  ladies  dress 
theirselves,  that  is/'  said  the  father,  adding,  however,, 
in  an  undertone,  to  Mr.  Macey:  "It  does  make  her 
look  funny,  though — partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle 
wi'  a  long  quill  in  it.  Hey,  by  jingo,  there's  the  young  5 
Squire  leading  off  now,  wi'  Miss  Nancy  for  partners. 
There's  a  lass  for  you! — like  a  pink-and- white  posy — 
there's  nobody  'ud  think  as  anybody  could  be  so  pritty. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she's  Madam  Cass  some  day,  arter 
all — and  nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they'd  make  a  10 
fine  match.  You  can  find  nothing  against  Master  God- 
frey's shapes,  Macey,  I'll  bet  a  penny." 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head 
further  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a 
presto  movement  as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the  is 
dance.     At  last  he  summed  up  his  opinion: 

"  Pretty  well  down'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i'  the     . 
shoulder-blades.      And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets 
from  the  Flitton  tailor,  they're  a  poor  cut  to  pay  dou- 
ble money  for."  20 

"Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  are  two  folks,"  said 
Ben,  slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  "  When  I've 
got  a  pot  o'  good  ale,  I  like  to  swaller  it,  and  do  my 
inside  good,  i'stead  o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it  to  see 
if  I  can't  find  faut  wi'  the  brewing.  I  should  like  you  25 
to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed  young  fellow  nor  Master 
Godfrey — one  as''ud  knock  you  down  easier,  or  's  more 
pleasanter  looksed  when  he's  piert  and  merry." 

"  Tchuh !  "  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased 
severity,  "he  isn't  come  to  his  right  color  yet:  he's  30 
partly  like  a  slack-baked  pie.     And  I  doubt  he's  got  a 
soft  place  in  his  head,  else  why  should  he  be  turned 
round  the  finger  by  that  offal  Dunsey  as  nobody's  seen 


168  SILAS  MARNER 

>/  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting  hoss  as  was 
che  talk  o^  the  country?  And  one  while  he  was  allays 
after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it  all  went  off  again,  like 
a  smell  o^  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say.  That  wasn't 
5  my  way  when  I  went  a-coorting/' 

''  Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  off,  like,  and 
your  lass  didn't,^'  said  Ben. 

"  I  should  say  she  didn't,^'  said  Mr.  Macey,  signifi- 
cantly.     "  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know 

10  as  she'd  say  '  snaff,'  and  pretty  quick,  too.  I  wasn't 
a-going  to  open  my  mouth,  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and 
snap  it  to  again,  wi'  nothing  to  swaller." 

"  Well,    I    think    Miss    Nancy's    a-coming    round 
again,"   said   Ben,   "  for  Master   Godfrey  doesn't  look 

15  so  downhearted  to-night.  And  I  see  he's  for  taking 
her  away  to  sit  down,  now  they're  at  the  end  o'  the 
dance:  that  looks  like  sweethearting,  that  does." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the 
dance  was  not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.      In  the 

20  close  press  of  couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened 
to  Nancy's  dress,  which,  while  it  was  short  enough  to 
show  her  neat  ankle  in  front,  was  long  enough  behind 
to  be  caught  under  the  stately  stamp  of  the  Squire's 
foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stitches  at  the  waist,  and 

25  cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilla's  mind,  as 
well  as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's.  One's  thoughts 
may  be  much  occupied  with  love  struggles,  but  hardly 
so  as  to  be  insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the  general 
framework  of  things.     Nancy  had  no  sooner  completed 

W)  her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing  than  she  said 
to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that  she  must  go  and 
sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her;  for  the  sisters 
had  already  exchanged  a  short  whisper  and  an  open- 


SILAS  MARNER  169 

eyed  glance  full  of  meaning.  No  reason  less  urgent 
than  this  could  have  prevailed  on  Nancy  to  give  God- 
frey this  opportunity  of  sitting  apart  with  her.  As  for 
Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so  happy  and  oblivious  under 
the  long  charm  of  the  country-dance  with  Nancy,  that  5 
he  got  rather  bold  on  the  strength  of  her  confusion, 
and  w^as  capable  of  leading  her  straight  away,  without 
leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining  small  parlor,  where  the 
card-tables  were  set. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,^^  said  Nancy  coldly,  as  soon  as  lo 
she  perceived  where  he  was  going,  "  not  in  there.     Fll 
wait  here  till  Priscilla's  ready  to   come   to  me.     Fm 
sorry  to  bring  you  out  of  the  dance  and  make  myself 
troublesome.^^ 

"  Why,  you^ll  be  more  comfortable  here  by  your-  15 
self, ^^  said  the  artful  Godfrey;  ^^  I'll  leave  you  here  till 
.  jour  sister  can  come.'^    He  spoke  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what 
Nancy  desired;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  should  make  it?  They  entered,  and  she  20 
seated  herself  on  a  chair  against  one  of  the  card-tables, 
as  the  stiffest  and  most  unapproachable  position  she 
could  choose. 

"Thank    you,    sir,^^    she    said    immediately.      "I 
needn't  give  you  any  more  trouble.     I'm  sorry  you've  25 
•had  such  an  unlucky  partner." 

^'  That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Godfrey, 
standing  by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  depar- 
ture, ^  to  be  sorry  you've  danced  with  me." 

^  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what's  ill-natured  30 
;at  all,"   said  Nancy,  looking  distractingly  prim  and 
pretty.      "  When  gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures, 
one  dance  can  matter  but  very  little." 


170  SILAS  MARNER 

"You  know  that  isn^t  true.  You  know  one  dance 
with  you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the  other  pleas- 
ures in  the  world/^ 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said 

5  anything  so  direct  as  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled. 

But  her  instinctive  dignity  and  repugnance  to  any  show 

of  emotion  made  her  sit  perfectly  still,  and  only  throw 

a  little  more  decision  into  her  voice  as  she  said — 

"  N'o,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  not  known  to  me, 
10  and  I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different. 
But  if  it's  true,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy — never 

think  well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen — would  you 

never  think  the  present  made  amends  for  the  past? 

15  Not  if  I  turned  a  good  fellow,  and  gave  up  everything 

you  didn't  like?" 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  be- 
side himself;  but  blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery  of 
20  his  tongue.  Nancy  really  felt  much  agitated  by  the 
possibility  Godfrey's  words  suggested,  but  this  very 
pressure  of  emotion  that  she  was  in  danger  of  finding 
too  strong  for  her  roused  all  her  power  of  self-com- 
mand. 
25  "I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  anybody, 
Mr.  Godfrey,"  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  dis- 
cernible difference  of  tone,  "  but  it  'ud  be  better  if  no 
change  was  wanted." 

"You're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey 
30  pettishly.     "  You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  better 
fellow.     I'm  very  miserable — ^but  you've  no  feeling." 

"  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act  wrong 
to  begin  with,"  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite 


SILAS  MARNER  171 

of  herself.  Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash, 
and  would  have  liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel 
with  him;  Nancy  was  so  exasperatingly  quiet  and  firm. 
But  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him  yet. 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and  say-  5 
ing,  ''  Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown,^^ 
cut  off  Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,''  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

"It's  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay," 
said  that  frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in  her  lo 
pocket,  with  a  preoccupied  brow. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  looking 
at  !N"ancy,  who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla's  order. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all  her 
former  coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the  hem  15 
of  her  gown. 

"  Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless 
determination  to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he  could 
to-night,  and  think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 


CHAPTEK  XII 

While  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  forget- 
fulness  from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  wilhngly 
losing  all  sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which  at  other 
moments  galled  and  fretted  him  so  as  to  mingle  irri- 

5  tation  with  the  very  sunshine,  Godfrey's  wife  was  walk- 
ing with  slow  uncertain  steps  through  the  snow-cov- 
ered Eaveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child  in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year's  Eve  w^as  a  premedi- 
tated act  of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her  heart 

10  ever  since  Godfrey,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told  her  he 
would  sooner  die  than  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife. 
There  would  be  a  great  party  at  the  Eed  House  on 
New  Year's  Eve,  she  knew:  her  husband  would  be 
smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  lier  existence  in  the 

15  darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  But  she  w^ould  mar  his 
pleasure:  she  would  go  in  her  dingy  rags,  with  her 
faded  face,  once  as  handsome  as  the  best,  with  her 
little  child  that  had  its  father's  hair  and  eyes,  and 
disclose  herself  to  the  Squire  as  his  eldest  son's  wife. 

20  It  is  seldom  that  the  miserable  can  help  regarding 
their  misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less 
miserable.  Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy 
rags  was  not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demon 
Opium,  to  whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  ex-^ 

25  cept  in  the  lingering  mother's  tenderness  that  refused 
172 


I  SILAS  MARNER  173 

to  give  him  her  hungry  child.  She  knew  this  well; 
and  yet,  in  the  moments  of  wretched  iinbennmbed  con- 
sciousness, the  sense  of  her  want  and  degradation  trans- 
formed itself  continually  into  bitterness  toward  God- 
frey. He  was  well  off;  and  if  she  had  her  rights  she  5 
would  be  well  off,  too.  The  belief  that  he  repented  his 
marriage,  and  suffered  from  it,  only  aggravated  her 
rindictiveness.  Just  and  self -reproving  thoughts  do 
not  come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in  the  purest  air,  and 
with  the  best  lessons  of  heaven  and  earth;  how  should  lo 
those  white- winged  delicate  messengers  make  their  way 
to  Molly's  poisoned  chamber,  inhabited  by  no  higher 
memories  than  those  of  a  barmaid's  paradise  of  pink 
libbons  and  gentlemen's  jokes? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered  15 
on  the  road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that 
if  she  waited  under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease 
to  fall.     She  had  waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and 
now  that  she  found  herself  belated  in  the  snow-hidden 
ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes,  even  the  animation  of  a  20 
vindictive  purpose  could  not  keep  her  spirit  from  fail- 
ing.    It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  by  this  time  she  was 
not  very  far  from  Eaveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar 
.^enough  with  those  monotonous  lanes  to  know  how  near 
she  was  to  her  journey's  end.      She  needed  comfort,  25 
and  she  knew  but  one  comforter — the  familiar  demon 
in  her  bosom ;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  after  draw- 
ing out  the  black  remnant,  before  she  raised  it  to  her 
lips.     In  that  moment  the  mother's  love  pleaded  for 
painful  consciousness  rather  than  oblivion — ^pleaded  to  30 
be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather  than  to  have  the 
encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could  not  feel 
the  dear  burden.     In  another  moment  Molly  had  flung 


174  SILAS  MARNER 

something  away,  but  it  was  not  the  black  remnant — ► 
it  was  an  empty  phial.  And  she  walked  on  again 
under  the  breaking  cloud,  from  which  there  came  now 
and  then  the  light  of  a  quickly  veiled  star,  for  a  freez- 

5  ing  wind  had  sprung  up  since  the  snowing  had  ceased. 
But  she  walked  always  more  and  more  drowsily,  and 
clutched  more  and  more  automatically  the  sleeping 
child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold 

10  and  weariness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  nothing 
but  a  supreme  immediate  longing  that  curtained  off 
all  futurity — the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  She 
had  arrived  at  a  spot  where  her  footsteps  were  no 
longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and  she  had  wandered 

15  vaguely,  unable  to  distinguish  any  objects,  notwith- 
standing the  wide  whiteness  around  her,  and  the  grow- 
ing starlight.  She  sank  down  against  a  straggling 
furze  bush,  an  easy  pillow  enough ;  and  the  bed  of  snow, 
too,  was  soft.     She  did  not  feel  that  the  bed  was  cold, 

20  and  did  not  heed  whether  the  child  would  wake  and 

cry  for  her.     But  her  arms  had  not  yet  relaxed  their 

instinctive  clutch;  and  the  little  one  slumbered  on  as 

gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace-trimmed  cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last:  the  fingers 

25  lost  their  tension,  the  arms  unbent;  then  the  httle 
head  fell  away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened 
wide  on  the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was  a  little 
peevish  cry  of  "  mammy ,^^  and  an  effort  to  regain  the 
pillowing  arm  and  bosom;  but  mammy^s  ear  was  deaf, 

30  and  the  pillow  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  backward. 
Suddenly,  as  the  child  rolled  downward  on  its  mother's 
knees,  all  wet  with  snow,  its  eyes  were  caught  by  a 
bright  glancing  light  on  the  white  ground,  and,  with 


I  SILAS  MARNER  175 

the  ready  transition  of  infancy,  it  was  immediately  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  the  bright  living  thing  running 
toward  it,  yet  never  arriving.  That  bright  living  thing 
must  be  caught;  and  in  an  instant  the  child  had  slipped 
on  all  fours,  and  held  out  one  little  hand  to  catch  the  5 
gleam.  But  the  gleam  would  not  be  caught  in  that 
way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up  to  see  where  the 
cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came  from  a  very  bright 
place;  and  the  little  one,  rising  on  its  legs,  toddled 
through  the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl  in  which  it  was  lo 
wrapped  trailing  behind  it,  and  the  queer  little  bon- 
net dangling  at  its  back — toddled  on  to  the  open  door 
of  Silas  Marner^s  cottage,  and  right  up  to  the  warm 
hearth,  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks, 
which  had  thoroughly  warmed  the  old  sack  (Silas's  15 
greatcoat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry.  The  little 
one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long  hours  with- 
out notice  from  its  mother,  squatted  down  on  the  sack, 
and  spread  its  tiny  hands  toward  the  blaze,  in  perfect 
contentment,  gurgling  and  making  many  inarticulate  20 
communications  to  the  cheerful  fire,  like  a  new-hatched 
gosling  beginning  to  find  itself  comfortable.  But  pres- 
ently the  warmth  had  a  lulling  effect,  and  the  little 
golden  head  sank  down  on  the  old  sack,  and  the 
blue  eyes  were  veiled  by  their  delicate,  half-transpar-  25 
ent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange  vis- 
itor had  come  to  his  hearth?.  He  was  in  the  cottage, 
but  he  did  not  see  the  child.  During  the  last  few 
weeks,  since  he  had  lost  his  money,  he  had  contracted  30 
the  habit  of  opening  his  door  and  looking  out  from  time 
to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his  money  might  be 
somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or  that  some  trace,  some 


.     176  SILAS  MARNER 

news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on  the  road,  and  be 
caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  straining  eye.  It 
was  chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  occupied  in  his 
loom,  that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of  an  act  for 
5  which  he  could  have  assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and 
which  can  hardly  be  understood  except  by  those  who 
have  undergone  a  bewildering  separation  from  a  su- 
premely loved  object.  In  the  evening  twilight,  and 
later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark,  Silas  looked 

10  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the  Stone-pits,  lis- 
tening and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but  with  mere  yearn- 
ing and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some   of  his 
neighbors  that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that  he 

15  must  sit  up  and  hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the 
new  rung  in,  because  that  was  good  luck,  and  might 
bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was  only  a  friendly 
Eaveloe  way  of  jesting  with  the  half-crazy  oddities  of 
a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped  to  throw  Silas  into 

20  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since  the  on-com- 
ing of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and  again, 
though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  dis- 
tance veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time 
he  opened  it  the    snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were 

25  parting  here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listened,  and 
gazed  for  a  long  while — there  was  really  something  on 
the  road  coming  toward  him  then,  but  he  caught  no 
sign  of  it;  and  the  stillness  and  the  wide  trackless  snow 
seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched  his  yearn- 

80  ing  with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again,  and 
put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  to  close 
it — but  he  did  not  close  it:  he  was  arrested,  as  he 
had  been  already  since  his  loss^  by  the  invisible  wand 


SILAS  MARNER  177 

of  cttalepsy,  and  stood  like  a  graven  image,  with 
wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  power- 
less to  resist  either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter 
there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued  5 
the  a.£tion  which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his 
door,  unaware  of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  un- 
aware of  any  intermediate  change,  except  that  the  light 
had  gyown  dim,  and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint.     He 
thought  he  had  been  too  long  standing  at  the  door  and  i& 
locking  out.     Turning  toward  the  hearth  where  the 
two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and  sent  forth  only  a  red 
uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on  his  fireside     • 
chair,  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs  together,  when, 
to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  gold  15 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.     Gold! — his  own 
gold — brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it  had 
been  taken  away!     He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  vio- 
lently, and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure.     The  20 
heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  beneath  his 
agitated  gaze.    He  leaned  forward  at  last,  and  stretched 
forth  his  hand;  but  instead  of  the  hard  coin  with  the 
familiar  resisting  outline,  his  fingers  encountered  soft 
warm  curls.      In  utter  amazement,   Silas  fell  on  his  25 
knees  and  bent  his  head  low  to  examine  the  marvel: 
it  was  a  sleeping  child — a  round,  fair  thing,  with  soft 
yellow  rings  all  over  its  head.     Could  this  be  his  little 
ciister  come  back  to  him  in  a  dream — ^his  little  sister 
whom  he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms  for  a  year  be-  30 
fore  she  died,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  without  shoes 
or  stockings?     That  was  the  first  thought  that  darted 
across   Silas's   blank   wonderment.     Was   it   a    dream? 


178  SILAS  MARNER 

He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs  together,  and, 
throwing  on  some  dried  leaves  and  sticks,  raised  a  flame; 
but  the  flame  did  not  disperse  the  vision — it  only  lit 
up  more  distinctly  the  little  round  form  of  the  child 

5  and  its  shabby  clothing.  It  was  very  much  like  his 
little  sister,  Silas  sank  into  his  chair  powerless,  under 
the  double  presence  of  an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a 
hurrying  influx  of  memories.  How  and  when  had  the 
child  come  in  without  his  knowledge?     He  had  never 

10  been  beyond  the  door.  But  along  with  that  question, 
and  almost  thrusting  it  away,  there  was  a  vision  of  the 
old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading  to  Lantern  Yard 
— and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the  thoughts  which 
had  been  present  with  him  in  those  far-off  scenes.     The 

15  thoughts  were  strange  to  him  now,  like  old  friendships 
impossible  to  revive;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy  feeling 
that  this  child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him 
from  that  far-off  life:  it  stirred  fibers  that  had  never 
been  moved  in  Eaveloe — old  quiverings  of  tenderness 

20  — old  impressions  of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some 
Power  presiding  over  his  life;  for  his  imagination  had 
not  yet  extricated  itself  from  the  sense  of  mys- 
tery in  the  child^s  sudden  presence,  and  had  formed  no 
conjectures  of  ordinary  natural  means  by  which  the 

25  event  could  have  been  brought  about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth:  the  child  had 
awaked,  and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It 
clung  round  his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into 
that  mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with  "  mammy  '^  by 

30  which  little  children  express  the  bewilderment  of  wak- 
ing. Silas  pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  unconsciously 
uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tenderness,  while  he  be- 
thought himself  that  some  of  his  porridge,  which  had 


SILAS  MARNER  I79 

got  cool  by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child 
with  if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The 
porridge,  sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from 
an  old  store  which  he  had  refrained  from  using  for  5 
himself,  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made 
her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas, 
as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her  mouth.  Presently  she 
slipped  from  his  knee  and  began  to  toddle  about,  but 
with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas  jump  up  and  10 
follow  her  lest  she  should  fall  against  anything  that 
would  hurt  her.  But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  posture 
on  the  ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots,  looking 
up  at  him  with  a  crying  face,  as  if  the  boots  hurt  her. 
He  took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it  was  some  time  15 
before  it  occurred  to  Silas's  dull  bachelor  mind  that 
the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing  on  her  warm 
ankles.  He  got  them  off  with  difficulty,  and  baby  was 
at  once  happily  occupied  with  the  primary  mystery  of 
her  own  toes,  inviting  Silas,  with  much  chuckling,  to  20 
consider  the  mystery  too.  But  the  wet  boots  had  at 
last  suggested  to  Silas  that  the  child  had  been  walk- 
ing on  the  snow,  and  this  roused  him  from  his  entire 
oblivion  of  any  ordinary  means  by  which  it  could  have 
entered  or  been '  brought  into  his  house.  Under  the  2$ 
prompting  of  this  new  idea,  and  without  waiting  to 
form  conjectures,  he  raised  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as  he  had  opened  it  there 
was  the  cry  of  "  mammy  ^^  again,  which  Silas  had  not 
heard  since  the  child's  first  hungry  waking.  Bending  30 
forward,  he  could  just  discern  the  marks  made  by  the 
little  feet  on  the  virgin  snow,  and  he  followed  their 
track  to  the  furze  bushes.     "  Mammy!  "  the  little  one 


'      180  SILAS  MARNER 

cried  again  and  again,  stretching  itself  forward  so  as 
almost  to  escape  from  Silases  arms,  before  he  himself 
was  aware  that  there  was  something  more  than  the  bush 
before  him — that  there  was  a  human  body,  with  the 
5  head  sunk  low  in  the  furze,  and  half  covered  with  the 
shaken  snow. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

It  was  after  the  early  supper  time  at  the  Eed  House, 
and  the  entertainment  was  in  that  stage  when  bash- 
fulness  itself  had  passed  into  easy  jollity^  when  gentle- 
men^ conscious  of  unusual  accomplishments,  could  at 
length  be  prevailed  on  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  and  when  5 
the  Squire  preferred  talking  loudly,  scattering  snuff, 
and  patting  his  visitors^  backs,  to  sitting  longer  at  the 
whist  table — a  choice  exasperating  to  Uncle  Kimble, 
who,  being  always  volatile  in  sober  business  hours,  be- 
came intense  and  bitter  over  cards  and  brandy,  shuffled  lo 
before  his.  adversary's  deal  with  a  glare  of  suspicion, 
and  turned  up  a  mean  trump  card  with  an  air  of  inex- 
pressible disgust,  as  if  in  a  world  where  such  things  . 
could  happen  one  might  as  well  enter  on  a  course  of 
reckless  profligacy.     When  the  evening  had  advanced  if. 
to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoyment,  it  was  usual 
for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  supper  being  well 
over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement  by  coming  to 
look  on  at  the  dancing;  so  that  the  back  regions  of  the 
house  were  left  in  solitude.  20 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  White  Parlor 
was  entered  from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both  stand- 
ing open  for  the  sake  of  air;  but  the  lower  one  was 
crowded  with  the  servants  and  villagers,  and  only  the 
upper  doorway  was  left  free.     Bob  Cass  was  figuring  25 

181 


182  SILAS  MARNER 

in  a  hornpipe^  and  his  father,  very  proud  of  this  lithe 
son,  whom  he  repeatedly  declared  to  be  just  like  him- 
self in  his  young  days  in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to 
be  the-  very  highest  stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the 
5  center  of  a  group  who  had  placed  themselves  opposite 
the  performer,  not  far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey 
was  standing  a  little  way  off,  not  to  admire  his  brother's 
dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of  Nancy,  who  was  seated 
in  the  group,  near  her  father.  He  stood  aloof,  because 
\o  he  wished  to  avoid  suggesting  himself  as  a  subject  for 
the  Squire's  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with  matri- 
mony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty,  which  were 
likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But  he  had 
the  prospect  of  dancing  with  her  again  when  the  horn- 
l/i  pipe  was  concluded,  and  in  the  meanwhile  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  get  long  glances  at  her  quite  unobserved. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one  of 
those  long  glances  they  encountered  an  object  as  star- 
tling to  him  at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  appa- 
4a)  rition  from  the  dead.  It  was  an  apparition  from  that 
hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a  dark  by-street,  behind  the 
goodly  ornamented  fagade  that  meets  the  sunlight  and 
the  gaze  of  respectable  admirers.  It  was  his  own  child, 
carried  in  Silas  Marner's  arms.  That  was  his  instan- 
ts taneous  impression,  unaccompanied  by  doubt,  though 
he  had  not  seen  the  child  for  months  past;  and  when 
the  hope  was  rising  that  he  might  possibly  be  mistaken, 
Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had  already  ad- 
vanced to  Silas  in  astonishment  at  this  strange  advent.\ 
w  Godfrey  joined  them  immediately,  unable  to  rest  with- 
out hearing  every  word — trying  to  control  himself,  but 
conscious  that  if  any  one  noticed  him,  they  must  see 
that  he  was  white-lipped  aiid  trembling. 


SILAS  MARNER  183 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were  bent 
on  Silas  Marner;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and 
asked  angrily,  "  How^s  this  ? — what^s  this  ? — what  do 
you  do  coming  in  here  in  this  way  ?  ^^ 

"  I'm  come   for  the   doctor — I   want  the   doctor/'  5 
Silas  had  said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Cracken- 
thorp. 

'^  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Marner  ?  "  said  the  rector. 
"  The  doctor's  here;  but  say  quietly  what  you  want 
him  for."  lo 

"  It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half 
breathlessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  "  She's  dead, 
I  think — dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits — not  far 
from  my  door." 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb:  there  was  one  terror  15 
in  his  mind  at  that  moment:  it  was,  that  the  woman 
might  not  be  dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror — an  ugly 
inmate  to  have  found  a  nestling  place  in  Godfrey's 
kindly  disposition;  but  no  disposition  is  a  security  from 
evil  wishes  to  a  man  whose  happiness  hangs  on  du-  20 
plicity. 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "Go  out 
into  the  hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you. 
Found  a  woman  in  the  snow — and  thinks  she's  dead," 
he  added,  speaking  low  to  the  Squire.  "  Better  say  25 
as  little  about  it  as  possible:  it  will  shock  the  ladies. 
Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is  ill  from  cold  and  hun- 
ger.    I'll  go  and  fetch  Kimble." 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  for- 
ward, curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the  30 
solitary  linen  weaver  there  under  such  strange  circum- 
stances, and  interested  in  the  pretty  child,  who,  half 
alarmed  and  half  attracted  by  the  brightness  and  the 


184  SILAS   MAKNER 

numerous  company,  now  frowned  and  hid  her  face, 
now  lifted  up  her  head  again  and  looked  round  placa- 
bly, until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing  word  brought  back  the 
frown,  and  made  her  bury  her  face  with  new  determi- 
5  nation. 

"  What  child  is  it  ?  ^^  said  several  ladies  at  once, 
and,  among  the  rest,  Kancy  Lammeter,  addressing 
Godfrey. 

"  I  don't  know — some  poor  woman's  who  has  been 

10  found  in  the  snow,  I  believe,"  was  the  answer  Godfrey 

wrung  from  himself  with  a  terrible  effort.     {''  After 

all,  am  I  certain  ?  "  he  hastened  to  add,  in  anticipation 

of  his  own  conscience.) 

"  Why,  you'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then,  Mas- 
15  ter  Marner,"  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitat- 
ing, however,  to  take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact 
with  her  own  ornamented  satin  bodice.     "  I'll  tell  one 
o'  the  girls  to  fetch  it." 

"No — no — I  can't  part  with  it,  I  can't  let  it  go,'^ 
20  said  Silas  abruptly.     "  It's  come  to  me — I've  a  right 
to  keep  it." 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had  come 

to   Silas  quite  unexpectedly,  and  his   speech,   uttered 

under  a  strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like  a  reve- 

25  lation  to  himself:  a  minute  before  he  had  no  distinct 

intention  about  the  child. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Kimble 
in  mild  surprise,  to  her  neighbor. 

"  Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  asid^,'^ 

30  said  Mr.  Kimble,  coming  from  the  card  room,  in  some 

bitterness  at  the  interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long 

habit  of  his  profession  into   obedience  to  unpleasant 

calls,  even  when  he  was  hardly  sober. 


SILAS  MARNER  185 

"It's  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kim- 
ble ? ''  said  the  Squire.  "  He  might  ha'  gone  for 
your  young  fellow — the  'prentice,  there — what's  his 
name?" 

"Might?  ay-^what's  the  use  of  talking  about  5 
might?"  growled  Uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with 
Marner,  and  followed  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  God- 
frey. "  Get  me  a  pair  of  thick  boots,  Godfrey,  will 
you?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run  to  Winthrop's  and 
fetch  Dolly — she's  the  best  woman  to  get.  Ben  was  lo 
here  himself  before  supper;  is  he  gone?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  Marner;  "  but  I  couldn't 
stop  to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for 
the  doctor,  and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire's. 
And  I  made  haste  and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to  15 
be  seen  at  the  back  o'  the  house,  and  so  I  went  in  to 
where  the  company  was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light 
and  the  smiling  women's  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call 
for  "  mammy,"  though  always  clinging  to  Marner,  who  2:) 
had  apparently  won  her  thorough  confidence.  Godfrey 
had  come  back  with  the  boots,  and  felt  the  cry  as  if 
some  fiber  were  drawn  tight  within  him. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said  hastily,  eager  for  some  movement; 
"  I'll  go  and  fetch  the  woman — Mrs.  Winthrop."     -       25 

"  Oh,  pooh — send  somebody  else,"  said  Uncle  Kim- 
ble, hurrying  away  with  Marner. 

"  You'll  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kim- 
ble," said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor  was  out 
of  hearing.  30 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared:  he  was  gone  to 
snatch  his  hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough 
to  remember  that  he  must  not  look  like  a  madman; 


186  SILAS  MARKER 

but  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  into  the  snow  without 
heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the 
Stone-pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeHng 

5  that  she  was  entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering  cold 
and  snow  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  was  much  concerned 
at  a  young  gentleman's  getting  his  feet  wet  under  a 
like  impulse. 

"  You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly,  with 

10  respectful  compassion.  ''  You've  no  call  to  catch  cold: 
and  I'd  ask  you  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  tell  my  hus- 
band to  come,  on  your  way  back — he's  at  the  Rainbow, 
I  doubt — if  you  found  him  any  way  sober  enough  to 
be  o'  use.     Or  else,  there's  Mrs.  Snell  'ud  happen  send 

15  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and  carry,  for  there  may  be  things 
wanted  from  the  doctor's." 

"  No,  ril  stay,  now  I'm  once  out — I'll  stay  outside 
here,"  said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite  Mar- 
ner's  cottage.     "  You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can  do 

'^  anything." 

"  Well,  sir,  you're  very  good:  you've  a  tender  heart," 
said  Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a 
twinge  of  self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise.     He 

^  walked  up  and  down,  unconscious  that  he  was  plung- 
ing ankle-deep  in  snow,  unconscious  of  everything  but 
trembling  suspense  about  what  was  going  on  m  the 
cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  alternative  on  his  future 
lot.      Xo,   not   quite   unconscious    of   everything   else. 

30  Deeper  down,  and  half  smothered  by  passionate  desire 
and  dread,  there  was  the  sense  that  he  ought  not  to 
be  waiting  on  these  alternatives;  that  he  ought  to  ac- 
cept the  consequences  of  his  deeds,  own  the  miserable 


SILAS  MARNER  187 

wife,  and  fulfill  the  claims  of  the  helpless  child.  But 
he  had  not  moral  courage  enough  to  contemplate  that 
active  renunciation  of  Nancy  as  possible  for  him:  he 
had  only  conscience  and  heart  enough  to  make  him  for- 
ever uneasy  under  the  weakness  that  forbade  the  re-  5 
nunciation.  And  at  this  moment  his  mind  leaped  away 
from  all  restraint  toward  the  sudden  prospect  of  de- 
liverance from  his  long  bondage. 

"Is  she  dead?^^  said  the  voice  that  predominated 
over  every  other  within  him.  "  If  she  is,  I  may  marry  lo 
Nancy;  and  then  I  shall  be  a  good  fellow  in  future, 
and  have  no  secrets,  and  the  child — shall  be  taken  care 
of  somehow.^^  But  across  that  vision  came  the  other 
possibility — "  She  may  live,  and  then  it's  all  up  with 
me.''  15 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the  door 
of  the  cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out.  He 
went  forward  to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  suppress 
the  agitation  he  must  feel,  whatever  news  he  was  to 
hear.  20 

"  I  waited  for  you,  as  I'd  come  so  far,"  he  said, 
speaking  first. 

"  Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out.     Why 
didn't  you  send  one  of  the  men?     There's  nothing  to 
be   done.      She's   dead — has   been   dead   for   hours,   I  25 
should  say." 

"  What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  f eel- 
mg  the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 

"  A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black 
hair.     Some  vagrant — quite  in  rags.     She's  got  a  wed-  30 
ding-ring  on,  however.     They  must  fetch  her  away  to 
^he  workhouse  to-morrow.     Come,  come  along." 

"  I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.     "  I  think 


188  SILAS  MARNER 

I  saw  such  a  woman  yesterday.     1^11  overtake  you  in 
a  minute  or  two/^ 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to 
the  cottage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face 
5  on  the  pillow,  which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent 
care;  but  he  remembered  that  last  look  at  his  unhappy 
hated  wife  so  well,  that  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years  every 
line  in  the  worn  face  was  present  to  him  when  he  told 
the  full  story  of  this  night. 

10  He  turned  immediately  toward  the  hearth  where 
Silas  Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly 
quiet  now,  but  not  asleep — only  soothed  by  sweet  por- 
ridge and  warmth  into  that  wide-gazing  calm  which 
makes  us  older  human  beings,  with  our  inward  turmoil, 

15  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the  presence  of  a  little  child,  such 
as  we  feel  before  some  qniiet  majesty  or  beauty  in  the 
earth  or  sky — before  a  steady-glowing  planet,  or  a  full- 
flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over  a  silent 
pathway.     The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  God- 

20  frey's  without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  recognition; 
the  child  could  make  no  visible  audible  claim  on  its 
father;  and  the  father  felt  a  strange  mixture  of  feel- 
ings, a  conflict  of  regret  and  joy,  that  the  pulke  of  that 
little  heart  had  no  response  for  the  half-jealous  yeam- 

25  ing  in  his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes  turned  away  from 
him  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves  on  the  weaver^s  queer 
face,  which  was  bent  low  down  to  look  at  them,  while 
the  small  hand  began  to  pull  Marner's  withered  cheek 
with  loving  disfiguration. 

80  "  You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-morrow  ?  '' 
asked  Godfre3%  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"Who  says  sof  said  Marner  sharply.     '^Will  they 
^ake  me  take  her?  ^' 


SILAS  MARNER  189 

"Why,  you  wouldn't  like  to  keep  her,  should  you 
• — an  old  bachelor  like  you  ?  '^ 

"  Till  anybody  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  hJr 
away  from  me/'  said  Marner.  "  The  mother's  dead, 
and  I  reckon  it's  got  no  father;  it's  a  lone  thing — and  5 
I'm  a  lone  thing.  My  money's  gone,  I  don't  know 
where — and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where.  I 
know  nothing — I'm  partly  mazed." 

"  Poor  little  thing !  "  said  Godfrey.  ^^  Let  me  give 
something  toward  finding  it  clothes."  lo 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half 
a  guinea,  and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hurried 
out  of  the  cottage  to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

"  Ah,  I  see  it's  not  the  same  woman  I  saw,"  he  said, 
as  he  came  up.  It's  a  pretty  little  child;  the  old  fel-  15 
low  seems  to  want  to  keep  it;  that's  strange  for  a  miser 
like  him.  But  I  gave  him  a  trifle  to  help  him  out; 
the  parish  isn't  likely  to  quarrel  with  him  for  the  right 
to  keep  the  child." 

"  No;  but  I've  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have  20 
quarreled  with  him  for  it  myself.  It's  too  late  now, 
though.  If  the  child  ran  into  the  fire,  your  aunt's  too 
fat  to  overtake  it;  she  could  only  sit  and  grunt  like 
an  alarmed  sow.  But  what  a  fool  you  are,  God- 
frey, to  come  out  in  your  dancing  shoes  and  stock-  25 
ings  in  this  way — and  you  one  of  the  beaux  of  the 
evening,  and  at  your  own  house!  What  do  you  mean 
by  such  freaks,  young  fellow?  Has  Miss  Fancy  been 
cruel,  and  do  you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoiling  your 
pumps  ?  "  30 

"  Oh,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I 
was  tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and  that 
bother  about  the  hornpipes.     And  I'd  got  to  dance  with 


19U  SILAS  MARKER 

the  other  Miss  Gunn,"  said  Godfrey^  glad  of  the  sub- 
terfuge his  uncle  had  suggested  to  him. 

t^The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that 

keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a 

5  great  artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects 

but  his  own^  are  worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings 

when  once  the  actions  have  become  a  lie. 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlor  with  dry 
feet,  and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of 

10  relief  and  gladness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful 
thoughts  to  struggle  with.  For  could  he  not  venture 
now,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  to  say  the  tenderest 
things  to  Nancy  Lammeter — to  promise  her  and  him- 
self that  he  would  alwa3^s  be  just  what  she  would  de- 

15  sire  to  see  him?  There  was  no  danger  that  his  dead 
wife  would  be  recognized:  those  were  not  days  of  active 
inquiry  and  wide  report;  and  as  for  the  registry  of 
their  marriage,  that  was  a  long  way  off,  buried  in  un- 
turned pages,  away  from  every  one's  interest  but  his 

20  own.  Dunsey  might  betray  him  if  he  came  back;  but 
Dunsey  might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a 
man  than  he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a  proof 
that  his  conduct  has  been  less  foolish  and  blameworthy  , 

25  than  it  might  otherwise  have  appeared?     When  we  are  j 
treated  well,  we  naturally  begin  to  think  that  we  are  ' 
not  altogether  unmeritorious,  and  that  it  is  only  just 
we  should  treat  ourselves  well,  and  not  mar  our  own 
good  fortune.     Where,  after  all,  would  be  the  use  of 

30  his  confessing  the  past  to  Xancy  Lammeter,  and  throw- 
ing away  his  happiness? — nay,  hers?  for  he  felt  some 
confidence  that  she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child,  he 
would  see  that  it  was  cared  for;  he  would  never  for- 


r  SILAS  MARNER  191 

sake  it;  he  would  do  everything  but  own  it.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without  being  owned 
by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could  tell  how  things 
would  turn  out,  and  that — is  there  any  other  reason 
wanted? — well,  then,  that  the  father  would  be  much 
happier  without  owning  the  child. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

There  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Eaveloe, 
and  up  Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known  that 
the  dark-haired  woman  with  the  fair  child,  who  had 
lately  come  to  lodge  there,  was  gone  away  again.  That 
5  was  all  the  express  note  taken  that  Molly  had  disap- 
peared from  the  eyes  of  men.  But  the  unwept  death 
which,  to  the  general  lot,  seemed  as  trivial  as  the  sum- 
mer-shed leaf,  was  charged  with  the  force  of  destiny  to 
certain  human  lives  that  we  know  of,  shaping  their; 

10  joys  and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Marner's  determination  to  keep  the  "  tramp's 
child ''  was  matter  of  hardly  le^ss  surprise  and  iterated 
talk  in  the  village  than  the  robber)^  of  his  money.  That 
softening  of  feeling  toward  him  which  dated  from  his 

15  misfortune,  that  merging  of  suspicion  and  dislike  in  a 
rather  contemptuous  pity  for  him  as  lone  and  crazy, 
was  now  accompanied  with  a  more  active  sympathy, 
especially  among  the  women.  Notable  mothers,  who 
knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children  "  whole  and  sweet "; 

20  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  interrupted 
in  folding  their  arms  and  scratching  their  elbows  by 
the  mischievous  propensities  of  children  just  firm  on 
their  legs,  were  equally  interested  in  conjecturing  how 
a  lone  man  would  manage  with  a  two-year-old  child  on 

25  his  hands,  and  were  equally  ready  with  their  sugges- 
192 


SILAS  MARKER  193 

tions:  the  notable  chiefly  telling  him  what  he  had  bet- 
cer  do,  and  the  lazy  ones  being  emphatic  in  telling  him 
what  he  would  never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop  was 
the  one  whose  neighborly  ofiices  were  the  most  accept-  5 
able  to  Marner,  for  they  were  rendered  without  any 
show  of  bustling  instruction.  Silas  had  shown  her  the 
half  guinea  given  to  him  by  Godfrey,  and  had  asked 
her  what  he  should  do  about  getting  some  clothes  for 
the  child.  10 

"  Eh,  Master  Marner,*^  said  Dolly,  "  there's  no  call 
to  buy,  no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes;  for  I've  got  the 
little  petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  ^nq  years  ago,  and  it's 
ill  spending  the  money  on  them  baby  clothes,  for  the 
child  'ull  grow  like  grass  i'  May,  bless  it — that  it  will."  15 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and 
displayed  to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in 
their  due  order  of  succession,  most  of  them  patched 
and  darned,  but  clean  and  neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs. 
This  was  the  introduction  to  a  great  ceremony  with  20 
soap  and  water,  from  which  Baby  came  out  in  new 
beauty,  and  sat  on  Dolly's  knee,  handling  her  toes  and 
chuckling  and  patting  her  palms  together  with  an  air 
of  having  made  several  discoveries  about  herself,  which 
she  communicated  by  alternate  sounds  of  ^^gug-gug-  25 
gug,"  and  '^  mammy."  The  "  mammy  "  was  not  a  cry 
of  need  or  uneasiness;  Baby  had  been  used  to  utter 
it  without  expecting  either  tender  sound  or  touch  to 
follow. 

"  Anybody  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  couldn't  30 
be  prettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls  and 
kissing  them.     "  And  to  think  of  its  being  covered  wi' 
them  dirty  rags — and  the  poor  mother — froze  to  death; 


194  SILAS  MARNER 

but  there's  Them  as  took  care  of  it,  and  brought  it  to 
your  door,  Master  Marner.  The  door  was  open,  and  it 
walked  in  over  the  snow,  like  as  if  it  had  been  a  little 
starved  robin.  Didn't  you  say  the  door  was  open?" 
5  "  Yes,"  said  Silas  meditatively.  "  Yes — the  door 
was  open.  The  money's  gone  I  don't  know  where,  and 
this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where." 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconscious- 
ness of  the  child's  entrance,  shrinking  from  questions 

10  which  might  lead  to  the  fact  he  himself  suspected — 
namely,  that  he  had  been  in  one  of  his  trances. 

"  Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  "  it's  like 
the  night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping  and  the 
waking,  and  the  rain  and  the  harvest — one  goes  and 

15  the  other  comes,  and  we  know  nothing  how  nor  where. 
We  may  strive  and  scrat  and  fend,  but  it's  little  we 
can  do  arter  all — the  big  things  come  and  go  wi'  no 
striving  o'  our'n — they  do,  that  they  do;  and  I  think 
you're  in  the  right  on  it  to  k^ep  the  little  un.  Master 

20  Marner,  seeing  as  it's  been  sentio  you,  though  there's 
folks  as  thinks  different.  YouHl  happen  be  a  bit 
moithered  with  it  while  it's  so  little;  but  I'll  come, 
and  welcome,  and  see  to  it  for  you;  I've  a  bit  o'  time 
to  spare  most  days,  for  when  one  gets  up  betimes  i'  the 

25  morning,  the  clock  seems  to  stan'  still  tow'rt  ten,  afore 
it's  time  to  go  about  the  victual.  So,  as  I  say,  I'll 
come  and  see  to  the  child  for  you,  and  welcome." 

''  Thank  you  .  .  .  kindly,"  said  Silas,  hesitating  a 
little.     "I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  tell   me  things.     But," 

16.  scrat  and  fend.     Scrat  is  a  provincial  form  of  scratch ;  and 
fend  if  used  in  sense  of  provide  and  not  ward  off  is  also  provincial. 

21.  happen.     Perhaps. 

22.  moithered.     Perplexed,  bothered. 


SILAS  MARKER  195 

he  added  uneasily^  leaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby 
with  some  jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her  head  back- 
ward against  Dolly^s  arm,  and  eyeing  him  contentedly 
from  a  distance,  "  but  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  myself, 
else  it  may  get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not  fond  o'  5 
me.  I^ve  been  used  to  fending  for  myself  in  the  house 
— I  can  learn,  I  can  learn.'^ 

"  Eh,  to  be  sure,^^  said  Dolly  gently.  "  I've  seen 
men  as  are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The  men 
are  awkward  and  contrairy  mostly,  God  help  'em — but  lo 
when  the  drink's  out  of  'em,  they  aren't  unsensible, 
though  they're  bad  for  leeching  and  bandaging — so 
fiery  and  unpatient.  You  see  this  goes  first,  next  the 
skin,"  proceeded  Dolly,  taking  up  the  little  shirt,  and 
putting  it  on.  15 

"  Yes,"  said  Marner  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very 
close,  that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries; 
whereupon  Baby  seized  his  head  with  both  her  small 
arms,  and  put  her  lips  against  his  face  w4th  purring 
noises.  20 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender  tact, 
'"  she's  fondest  o'  you.  She  wants  to  go  o'  your  lap, 
I'll  be  bound.  Go,  then;  take  her.  Master  Marner; 
you  can  put  the  things  on,  and  then  you  can  say  as 
you've  done  for  her  from  the  first  of  her  coming  25 
to  you." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling,  with  an 
emotion  mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  unknown 
dawning  on  his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  were  so  con- 
fused within,  him  that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them  30 
utterance,  he  could  only  have  said  that  the  child  was 
come  instead  of  the  gold — ^that  the  gold  had  turned 
into  the  child.     He  took  the  garments  from  Dolly,  and 


196  SILAS  MARNER 

put  them  on  under  her  teaching,  interrupted,  of  course, 
by  Baby's  gymnastics. 

"There,  then!  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy.  Mas- 
ter Marner,''  said  Dolly;  "  but  what  shall  you  do  when 

5  you're  forced  to  sit  in  your  loom?  For  she'll  get  busier 
and  mischievouser  every  day — she  will,  bless  her.  It's 
lucky  as  you've  got  that  high  hearth  i'stead  of  a  grate, 
for  that  keeps  the  fire  more  out  of  her  reach;  but  if 
you've  got  anything  as  can  be  spilt  or  broke,  or  as  is 

10  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  off,  she'll  be  at  it — and  it  is  but 
right  you  should  know." 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity. 
"  I'll  tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,"  he  said  at  last — • 
"  tie  her  with  a  good  long  strip  o'  something." 

15  "  Well,  mayhap  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for 
they're  easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'^one  place  nor  the  lads. 
I  know  what  the  lads  are,  for  I'v^  had  four — four  I've 
had,  God  knows — and  if  you  v^s  to  take  and  tie 
'em  up,  they'd  make  a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you 

20  was  ringing  the  pigs.  But  I'll  bring  you  my  little 
chair,  and  some  bits  o'  red  rag  and  things  for  her  to 
play  wi';  an'  she'll  sit  and  chatter  to  'em  as  if  they 
was  alive.  Eh,  if  it  wasn't  a  sin  to  the  lads  to  wish 
'em  made  different,  bless  'em,  I  should  ha'  been  glad 

25  for  one  of  'em  to  be  a  little  gell;  and  to  think  as  I 
could  ha'  taught  her  to  scour,  and  mend,  and  the  knit- 
ting, and  everything.  But  I  can  teach  'em  this  little 
un,  Master  Marner,  when  she  gets  old  enough." 

"But  she'll  be  my  little  un,"  said  Marner,  rather 

30  hastily.     "  She'll  be  nobody  else's." 

"  N'o,  to  be  sure;  you'll  have  a  right  to  her  if  you're 

20.  ringing  the  pigs.     Putting  rings  in  their  snouts  to  keep  them 
from  rooting. 


SILAS  MARNER  197 

a  father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according.  But/' 
added  Dolly,  coining  to  a  point  which  she  had  deter- 
mined beforehand  to  touch  upon,  "  you  must  bring  her 
up  like  christened  folks^s  children,  and  take  her  to 
church,  and  let  her  learn  her  catechise,  as  my  little  5 
Aaron  can  say  off — the  '  I  believe,^  and  everything,  and 
'  hurt  nobody  by  word  or  deed  ^ — as  well  as  if  he  was 
the  clerk.  Thaf  s  what  you  must  do  Master  Marner, 
if  you'd  do  the  right  thing  by  the  orphin  child.'' 

Marner's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new  lo 
anxiety.     His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give  some 
definite  bearing  to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to  think  of 
answering  her. 

"  And  it's  my  belief,"  she  went  on,  "  as  the  poor 
little  creature  has  never  been  christened,  and  it's  noth-  15 
ing  but  right  as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to;  and 
if  you  w^as  noways  unwilling,  I'd  talk  to  Mr.  Macey 
about  it  this  very  day.  For  if  the  child  ever  went  any- 
ways wrong,  and  you  hadn't  done  your  part  by  it.  Mas- 
ter Marner — 'noculation,  and  everything  to  save  it  from  20 
harm — it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i'  your  bed  forever  0'  this  side 
the  grave;  and  I  can't  think  as  it  'ud  be  easy  lying 
down  for  anybody  when  they'd  got  to  another  world, 
if  they  hadn't  done  their  part  by  the  helpless  children 
as  come  wi'out  their  own  asking."  25 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some 
time  now,  for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her 
own  simple  belief,  and  was  much  concerned  to  know 
whether  her  words  would  produce  the  desired  effect  on 
Silas.  He  w^as  puzzled  and  anxious,  for  Dolly's  word  30 
"  christened "  conveyed  no  distinct  meaning  to  him. 
He  had  only  heard  of  baptism,  and  had  only  seen  the 
baptism  of  grown-up  men  and  women. 


198  SILAS  MARNER 

"  What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  '  christened  ^V^  he  said 
at  last  timidly.  "  Won^t  folks  be  good  to  her  with- 
out it?^^ 

''  Dear^  dear!  Master  Marner/^  said  Dolly,  with  gen- 

5  tie  distress  and  compassion.     "  Had  you  never  no  father 

nor  mother  as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers,  and  as 

there's  good  words  and  good  things  to  keep  us  from 

harm?^^ 

"Yes/^  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice;  ^^  I  know  a  deal 
lo  about  that — used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  dif- 
ferent; my  country  was  a  good  way  oRJ'  He  paused 
a  few  moments,  and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  "  But 
I  want  to  do  everything  as  can  be  done  for  the  child. 
And  whatever's  right  for  it  i'  4his  country,  and  you 
15  think  \ill  do  it  good,  I'll  act  according,  if  you'll  tell  me.^^ 

"  Well,  then.  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly 
rejoiced,  "  I'll  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson 
about  it;  and  you  must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because 
it  must  have  a  name  giv'  it  when  it's  christened." 
20  "  My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas, 
"  and  my  little  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"  Eh,  that's  a  hard  name,"  said  Dolly.  "  I  partly 
think  it  isn't  a  christened  name." 

"  It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 
25  "  Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it,"  said  Dolly, 
rather  startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head;  '^  but 
you  see  I'm  no  scholard,  and  I'm  slow  at  catching  the 
words.  My  husband  says  I'm  allays  like  as  if  I  was 
putting  the  haft  for  the  handle — that's  what  he  says 
30  — for  he's  very  sharp,  God  help  him.  But  it  was  awk- 
'ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard  name,  when 
you'd  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like — wasn't  it.  Master 
Marner?  " 


SILAS  MARNER  199 

"We  called  her  Eppie/^  said  Silas. 

"  Well^  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name, 
it  \\d  be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  Til  go  now,  Master 
Marner,  and  1^11  speak  about  the  christening  afore  dark; 
and  I  wish  you  the  best  o^  luck,  and  it's  my  belief  as  5 
it'll  come  to  you,  if  you  do  what's  right  by  the  orphin 
child;  and  there's  the  'noculation  to  be  seen  to;  and 
as  to  washing  its  bits  o'  things,  you  need  look  to  no- 
body but  me,  for  I  can  do  'em  wd'  one  hand  when  I've 
got  my  suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil!  You'll  let  lo 
me  bring  my  Aaron  one  o'  these  days,  and  he'll  show 
her  his  little  cart  as  his  father's  made  for  him,  and 
the  black-and-white  pup  as  he's  got  a-rearing." 

Baby  was   christened,  ttie  rector  deciding  that   a 
double  baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur;  and  on  this  15 
occasion  Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy  as  he 
could,  appeared  for  the  first  time  within  the  church, 
and  shared  in  the  observances  held  sacred  by  his  neigh- 
bors.    He  was  quite  unable,  by  means  of  anything  he 
heard  or  saw,  to  identify  the  Eaveloe  religion  with  his  20 
old  faith;  if  he  could  at  any  time  in  his  previous  life 
have  done  so,  it  must  have  been  by  the  aid  of  a  strong 
feeling  ready  to  vibrate  with  sympathy  rather  than  by 
a  comparison  of  phrases  and  ideas;  and  now  for  long 
years  that  feeling  had  been  dormant.     He  had  no  dis-  25 
tinct  idea  about  the  baptism  and  the  church-going,  ex- 
cept that  Dolly  had  said  it  was  for  the  good  of  the 
child;  and  in  this  way,  as  the  weeks  grew  to  months, 
the   child   created   fresh   and   fresh   links   between  his 
life  and  the  lives  from  which  he  had  hitherto  shrunk  30 
continually  into  narrower  isolation.     Unlike  the  gold 
which  needed  nothing,  and  must  be  worshiped  in  close- 
locked  solitude — which  was  hidden  away  from  the  day- 


^00  SILAS  MARKER 

light,  was  deaf  to  the  song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no 
human  tones — Eppie  was  a  creature  of  endless  claims 
and  ever-growing  desires,  seeking  and  loving  sunshine, 
and  living  sounds,  and  living  movements;  making  trial 
5  of  everything,  with  trust  in  new  joy,  and  stirring  the 
human  kindness  in  all  eyes  that  looked  on  her.  The 
gold  had  kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever-repeated  circle, 
leading  to  nothing  beyond  itself;  but  Eppie  was  an  ob- 
ject compacted  of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his 
10  thoughts  onward,  and  carried  them  far  away  from  their 
old  eager  pacing  toward  the  same  blank  limit — carried 
them  away  to  the  new  things  that  would  come  with 
the  coming  years,  when  Eppie  \would  have  learned  to 
understand  how  her  father  Silas  cared  for  her;  and 
15  made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time  in  the  ties  and 
charities  that  bound  together  the  families  of  his  neigh- 
bors. The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should  sit  weaving 
longer  and  longer,  deaf-ened  and  blinded  more  and  more 
to  all  things  except  the  monotony  of  his  loom  and  the 
20  repetition  of  his  web;  but  Eppie  called  him  away  from 
his  weaving,  and  made  him  think  all  its  pauses  a  holi- 
day, reawakening  his  senses  with  her  fresh  life,  even 
to  the  old  winter-flies  that  came  crawling  forth  in  the 
early  spring  sunshine,  and  warming  him  into  joy  be- 
gs cause  she  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting,  so 
that  the  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows,  Silas 
might  be  seen  in  the  sunny  midday,  or  in  the  late 
afternoon  when  the  shadows  were  lengthening  under 
30  the  hedgerows,  strolling  out  with  uncovered  head  to 
carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone-pits  to  where  the  flowers 
grew,  till  they  reached  some  favorite  bank  where  he 
could  sit  down,  while  Eppie  toddled  to  pluck  the  flow-   ^ 

i 


SILAS  MARNER  201    ' 

ers,  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged  things  that  mur- 
mured happily  above  the  bright  petals,  calling  "  Dad- 
dad^s  '^  attention  continually  by  bringing  him  the 
flowers.  Then  she  would  turn  her  ear  to  some  sudden 
bird-note,  and  Silas  learned  to  please  her  by  making  5 
signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that  they  might  listen  for  the 
note  to  come  again :  so  that  when  it  came,  she  set  up  her 
small  back  and  laughed  with  gurgling  triumph.  Sit- 
ting on  the  banks  in  this  way,  Silas  began  to  look  for 
the  once  familiar  herbs  again;  and  as  the  leaves,  with  it> 
their  unchanged  outline  and  markings,  lay  on  his  palm, 
there  was  a  sense  of  crowding  remembrances  from  which 
he  turned  away  timidly,  taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little 
world,  that  lay  lightly  on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child^s  mind  was  growing  into  knowledge,  15 
his  mind  was  growing  into  memory;  as  her  life  un- 
folded, his  soul,  long  stupefied  in  a  cold,  -narrow  prison, 
was  unfolding  too,  and  trembling  gradually  into  full 
consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with  20 
every  new   year:  the   tones   that   stirred   Silas's   heart 
grew  articulate,  and  called  for  more  distinct  answers; 
shapes  and  sounds  grew  clearer  for  Eppie's  eyes  and 
ears,  and  there  was  more  that  "  Dad-dad ''  was  impera- 
tively required  to  notice  and  account  for.     Also,  by  25 
the  time  Eppie  was  three  years  old,  she  developed  a 
fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for  devising  ingenious 
ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found  much  exercise, 
not  only  for  Silas's  patience,  but  for  his  watchfulness 
and  penetration.     Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puzzled  on  such  30 
occasions  by  the  incompatible  demands  of  love.     Dolly 
Winthrop  told  him  that  punishment  was  good  for  Ep- 
pie, and  that  as  for  rearing  a  child  without  making  it 


202  SILAS  MARNER 

tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places  now  and  then^  it 
was  not  to  be  done. 

"  To  be  sure,  there's  another  thing  you  might  do. 
Master  Marner/'  added  Dolly  meditatively;  ^'  you  might 

5  shut  her  up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was  what  I 
did  wi'  Aaron;  for  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the  youngest 
lad  as  I  could  never  bear  to  smack  him.  Not  as  I  could 
find  i'  my  heart  to  let  him  stay  i'  the  coal-hole  more 
nor  a  minute,  but  it  was  enough  to  colly  him  all  over, 

1.0  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed  and  dressed,  and  it  was 
as  good  as  a  rod  to  him — that  was.  But  I  put  it  upo' 
your  conscience,  Master  MarneA,  as  there's  one  of  'em 
yon  must  choose — ayther  smacking  or  the  coal-hole — 
else  she'll  get  so  masterful,  there'll  be  no  holding  her." 

15  Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of 
this  last  remark;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before 
the  only  two  penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only  be- 
cause it  was  painful  to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  because 
he  trembled  at  a  moment's  contention  with  her,  lest 

20  she  should  love  him  the  less  for  it.  Let  even  an  affec- 
tionate Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a  small,  tender  thing, 
dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling,  and  dreading  still  more 
to  snap  the  cord,  and  which  of  the  two,  pray,  will  be 
master?     It  was  clear  that  Eppie,  with  her  short  tod- 

85  dling  steps,  must  lead  father  Silas  a  pretty  dance  on  any 
fine  morning  when  circumstances  favored  mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip 
of  linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when 
he  was  busy;  it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her  waist, 

SO  and  was  long  enough  to  allow  of  her  reaching  the 
truckle  bed  and  sitting  down  on  it,  but  not  long  enough 
for  her  to  attempt  any  dangerous  climbing.  One  bright 
summer's  morning  Silas  had  been  more  engrossed  than 


SILAS  MARNER  203 

usual  in  "  setting  up  "  a  new  piece  of  work,  an  occasion 
on  which  his  scissors  were  in  requisition.  These  scis- 
sors, owing  to  an  especial  warning  of  Dolly's,  had  been 
kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's  reach;  but  the  click  of 
them  had  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for  her  ear,  and,  5 
watching  the  results  of  that  click,  she  had  derived  the 
philosophic  lesson  that  the  same  cause  would  produce 
the  same  effect.  Silas  had  seated  himself  in  his  loom, 
and  the  noise  of  weaving  had  begun;  but  he  had  left 
his  scissors  on  a  ledge  which  Eppie's  arm  was  long  lo 
enough  to  reach;  and  now,  like  a  small  mouse,  watch- 
ing her  opportunity,  she  stole  quietly  from  her  corner, 
secured  the  scissors,  and  toddled  to  the  bed  again,  set- 
ting up  her  back  as  a  mode  of  concealing  the  fact.  She 
had  a  distinct  intention  as  to  the  use  of  the  scissors;  15 
and  having  cut  the  linen  strip  in  a  jagged  but  effectual 
manner,  in  two  moments  she  had  run  out  at  the  open 
door  where  the  sunshine  was  inviting  her,  while  poor 
Silas  believed  her  to  be  a  better  child  than  usual.  It 
was  not  until  he  happened  to  need  his  scissors  that  the  20 
terrible  fact  burst  upon  him:  Eppie  had  run  out  by 
herself — had  perhaps  fallen  into  the  Stone-pit.  Silas, 
shaken  by  the  worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him, 
rushed  out,  calling  "Eppie!'"  and  ran  eagerly  about 
the  unenclosed  space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities  into  25 
which  she  might  have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with  ques- 
tioning dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface  of  the  water. 
The  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long  had  she 
been  out?  There  was  one  hope — that  she  had  crept 
through  the  stile  and  got  into  the  fields  where  he  habit-  so 
ually  took  her  to  stroll.  But  the  grass  was  high  in  the 
meadow,  and  there  was  no  descrying  her,  if  she  were 
there,  except  by  a  close  search  that  would  be  a  trespass 


204  SILAS  MARNER 

on  Mr.  Osgood^s  crop.  Stilly,  that  misdemeanor  must 
be  committed;  and  poor  Silas,  after  peering  all  round 
the  hedgerows,  traversed  the  grass,  beginning  with  per- 
turbed vision  to  see  Eppie  behind  every  group  of  red 

5  sorrel,  and  to  see  her  moving  always  farther  off  as  he 
approached.  The  meadow  was  searched  m  vain;  and 
he  got  over  the  stile  into  the  next  field,  looking  with 
dying  hope  toward  a  small  pond  which  was  now  reduced 
to  its  summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leave  a  wide  mar- 

10  gin  of  good  adhesive  mud.  Here,  however,  sat  Eppie, 
discoursing  cheerfully  to  her  own  small  boot,  which  she 
was  using  as  a  bucket  to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep 
hoof  mark,  w^hile  her  little  naked  foot  was  planted  com- 
fortably on  a  cushion  of  olive-green  mud.    A  red-headed 

15  calf  was  observing  her  with  alarmed  doubt  through  the 
opposite  hedge. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christened 
child  which  demanded  severe  treatment;  but  Silas,  over- 
come with  convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure  again, 

20  could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover  her  with 
half-sobbing  kisses.  It  was  not  until  he  had  carried 
her  home,  and  had  begun  to  think  of  the  necessary 
Avashing,  that  he  recollected  the  need  that  he  should 
punish  Eppie,  and  *^^  make  her  remember. ^^     The  idea 

25  that  she  might  run  away  again  and  come  to  harm  gave 
him  unusual  resolution,  and  for  the  first  time  he  deter- 
mined to  try  the  coal-hole — a  small  closet  near  the 
hearth. 

"!N"aughty,    naughty   Eppie,^^    he    suddenly   began, 

30  holding  her  on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy 
feet  and  clothes;  "naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors, 
and  run  away.  Eppie  must  go  into  the  coal-hole  for 
being  naughty.    Daddy  must  put  her  in  the  coal-hole '' 


SILAS  MARKER  205 

He  half  expected  that  this  would  be  shock  enough, 
and  that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.  But  instead  of 
that^  she  began  to  shake  herself  on  his  knee,  as  if  the 
proposition  opened  a  pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that  he 
must  proceed  to  extremities,  he  put  her  into  the  coal-  5 
hole,  and  held  the  door  closed,  with  a  trembling  sense 
that  he  was  using  a  strong  measure.  For  a  moment 
there  was  silence,  but  then  came  a  little  cry,  "  Opy, 
opy !  ^^  and  Silas  let  her  out  again,  saying,  "  Now  Eppie 
^ull  never  be  naughty  again,  else  she  must  go  in  the  lo 
coal-hole — a  black,  naughty  place.^^ 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this 
morning,  for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed  and  have 
clean  clothes  on;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this  pun- 
ishment would  have  a  lasting  effect,  and  save  time  in  15 
future;  though,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been  better  if 
Eppie  had  cried  more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas, 
having  turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do  with 
the  linen  band,  threw  it  down  again,  with  the  reflection  20 
that  Eppie  would  be  good  without  fastening  for  the 
^est  of  the  morning.  He  turned  round  again,  and  was 
going  to  place  her  in  her  little  chair  near  the  loom, 
when  she  peeped  out  at  him  with  black  face  and  hands 
again,  and  said,  "  Eppie  in  de  toal-hole !  ^^  25 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook 
Silas's  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  ''  She'd 
take  it  all  for  fun,"  he  observed  to  Dolly,  "  if  I  didn't 
hurt  her,  and  that  I  can't  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she 
makes  me  a  bit  o'  trouble  I  can  bear  it.  And  she's  30 
got  no  tricks  but  what  she'll  grow  out  of." 

"Well,   that's   partly  true,   Master   Marner,"    said 
Dolly  sympathetically;  "and  if  3^ou  can't  bring  your 


206  SILAS  MARNER 

mind  to  frighten  her  off  touching  things,  you  must  do 
what  you  can  to  keep  ^em  out  of  her  way.  That'& 
what  I  do  wi^  the  pups  as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing. 
They  will  worry  and  gnaw — worry  and  gnaw  they  will, 
5  if  it  was  one^s  Sunday  cap  as  hung  anywhere  so  as  they 
could  drag  it.  They  know  no  difference,  God  help  ^em; 
it^s  the  pushing  o^  the  teeth  as  sets  ^em  on,  that's  what 
it  is.''  \ 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  bur- 

10  den  of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father 
Silas.  The  stone  hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her^ 
lined  with  downy  patience;  and  also  in  the  world  that 
lay  beyond  the  stone  hut  she  knew  nothing  of  frowns 
and  denials. 

15  Notwithstanding  the  difHculty  of  carrying  her  and 
his  yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with 
him  in  most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  un- 
willing to  leave  her  behind  at  Dolly  Winthrop's,  who 
was  always  ready  to  take  care  of  her;  and  little  curly- 

20  headed  Eppie,  the  weaver's  child,  became  an  object  of 
interest  at  several  outlying  homesteads,  as  well  as  in 
the  village.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  very  much 
as  if  he  had  been  a  useful  gnome  or  brownie — a  queer 
and  unaccountable  creature,  who  must  necessarily  be 

25  looked  at  with  wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and 
with  whom  one  would  be  glad  to  make  all  greetings 
and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible,  but  who  must  be 
dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occasionally  have 
a  present  of  pork  or  garden-stuff  to  carry  home  with 

30  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there  was  no  getting  the 
yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with  open,  smiling 
faces  and  cheerful  questioning,  as  a  person  whose  satis- 
factions and  difficulties  could  be  understood.     Every- 


SILAS  MARKER  207 

where  he  must  sit  a  little  and  talk  about  the  child,  and 
words  of  interest  were  always  ready  for  him:  "  Ah, 
Master  Marner,  you'll  be  lucky  if  she  takes  the  measles 
soon  and  easy! '' — or,  "  Why,  there  isn't  many  lone  men 
\id  ha'  been  wishing  to  take  up  with  a  little  un  like  5 
that;  but  I  reckon  the  weaving  makes  you  handier  than 
men  as  do  outdoor  woi*k;  you're  partly  as  handy  as  a 
woman,  for  weaving  comes  next  to  spinning."  Elderly 
masters  and  mistresses,  seated  observantly  in  large 
kitchen  armchairs,  shook  their  heads  over  the  difficul-  10 
ties  attendant  on  rearing  children,  felt  Eppie's  round 
arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced  them  remarkably  firm, 
and  told  Silas  that,  if  she  turned  out  well  (which,  how- 
ever, there  was  no  telling),  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for 
him  to  have  a  steady  lass  to  do  for  him  when  he  got  15 
helpless.  Servant  maidens  were  fond  of  carrying  her 
out  to  look  at  the  hens  and  chickens,  or  to  see  if  any 
cherries  could  be  shaken  down  in  the  orchard;  and  the 
small  boys  and  girls  approached  her  slowly,  with  cau- 
tious movement  and  steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  20 
to  face  with  one  of  their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had 
reached  the  point  at  which  the  soft  lips  were  put  out 
for  a  kiss.  No  child  was  afraid  of  approaching  Silas 
when  Eppie  was  near  him:  there  was  no  repulsion 
around  him  now,  either  for  young  or  old;  for  the  little  25 
child  had  come  to  link  him  once  more  with  the  whole 
world.  There  was  love  between  him  and  the  child  that 
blent  them  into  one,  and  there  was  love  between  the 
child  and  the  world — from  men  and  women  with  pa- 
rental looks  and  tones  to  the  red  lady-birds  and  the  30 
round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Eaveloe  life  entirely 
in  relation  to  Eppie:  she  must  have  everything  that 


208  SILAS  MARNER 

was  a  good  in  Eaveloe;  and  he  listened  docilely,  that 
he  might  come  to  understand  better  what  this  life  was, 
from  which,  for  fifteen  years,  he  had  stood  aloof  as 
from  a  strange  thing,  wherewith  he  could  have  no  com- 
5  munion;  as  some  man  who  has  a  precious  plant  to 
which  he  would  give  a  nu^rturing  home  in  a  new  soil 
thinks  of  the  rain,  and  the  sunshine,  and  all  influences, 
in  relation  to  his  nursling,/ and  asks  industriously  for 
all  knowledge  that  will  help  him  to  satisfy  the  wants 

10  of  the  searching  roots,  or  to  guard  leaf  and  bud  from 
invading  harm.  The  disposition  to  hoard  had  been 
utterly  crushed  at  the  very  first  by  the  loss  of  his  long- 
stored  gold;  the  coins  he  earned  afterward  seemed  as 
irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to  complete  a  house  sud- 

15  denly  buried  by  an  earthquake;  the  sense  of  bereave- 
ment was  too  heavy  upon  him  for  the  old  thrill  of  satis- 
faction to  arise  again  at  the  touch  of  the  newly  earned 
coin.  And  now  something  had  come  to  replace  his 
hoard  which  gave  a  growing  impulse  to  the  earnings, 

20  drawing  his  hope  and  joy  continually  onward  beyond 
the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took 
men  by  the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of 
destruction.      We    see    no    white-winged    angels    now. 

25  But  yet  men  are  led  away  from  threatening  destruc- 
tion: a  hand  is  put  into  theirs  which  leads  them  forth 
gently  toward  a  calm  and  bright  land,  so  thnt  they 
look  no  more  backward;  and  the  hand  may  b^  a  little 
child's. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Theee  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who 
watched,  with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest  than 
any  other,  the  prosperous  growth  of  Eppie  under  the 
weaver's  care.  He  dared  not  do  anything  that  would 
imply  a  stronger  interest  in  a  poor  man's  adopted  child  5 
than  could  be  expected  from  the  kindliness  of  the  young 
Squire,  when  a  chance  meeting  suggested  a  little  pres- 
ent to  a  simple  old  fellow  whom  others  noticed  with 
good  will;  but  he  told  himself  that  the  time  would 
come  when  he  might  do  something  toward  furthering  10 
the  welfare  of  his  daughter  without  incurring  suspi- 
cion. Was  he  very  uneasy  in  the  meantime  at  his  in- 
ability to  give  his  daughter  her  birthright?  I  can  not 
say  that  he  was.  The  child  was  being  taken  care  of, 
and  would  very  likely  be  happy,  as  people  in  humble  15 
stations  often  were  —  happier,  perhaps,  than  those 
brought  up  in  luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he 
forgot  duty  and  followed  desire — I  wonder  if  it  pricked 
very  hard  when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  whether  it  20 
pricked  but  lightly  then,  and  only  pierced  to  the  quick 
when  the  chase  had  long  been  ended,  and  Hope,  fold- 
ing her  wings,  looked  backward  and  became  Regret. 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  e^^e  were  brighter  than 
ever  now.     He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims  that  he  25 
'  209 


210  SILAS  MARKER 

;  seemed  like  a  man  of  firmness.     'No  Dunsey  had  comer 

'  back;  people  had  made  up  their  minds  that  he  was 

gone  for  a  soldier^  or  gone  ''  out  of  the  country/^  and 

no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their  inquiries  on  a  sub- 

5  ject  delicate  to  a  respectable  family.  Godfrey  had 
ceased  to  see  the  shadow  ofj  Dunsey  across  his  path; 
and  the  path  now  lay  straight  forward  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  best,  longest-cherished  wishes.  Every- 
body said  Mr.  Godfrey  had  taken  the  right  turn;  and 

10  it  was  pretty  clear  what  would  be  the  end  of  things, 
for  there  were  not  many  days  in  the  week  that  he  was 
not  seen  riding  to  the  Warrens.  Godfrey  himself,  when 
he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had  been  fixed,  smiled 
with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover  who  could 

15  say  ^^  yes  '^  if  he  liked.  He  felt  a  reformed  man,  de- 
livered from  temptation;  and  the  vision  of  his  future 
life  seemed  to  him  as  a  promised  land  for  which  he  had 
no  cause  to  fight.  He  saw  himself  with  all  his  hap- 
piness centered  on  his  own  hearth,  while  Nancy  would 

20  smile  on  him  as  he  played  with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child — not  on  the  hearth — he  would 
not  forget  it;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well  provided 
for.     That  was  a  father's  duty. 


PART    II 
CHAPTER  XVI 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after 
Silas  Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth. 
The  bells  of  the  old  Eaveloe  church  were  ringing  the 
cheerful  peal  which  told  that  the  morning  service  was 
ended;  and  out  of  the  arched  doorway  in  the  tower  5 
came  slowly,  retarded  by  friendly  greetings  and  ques- 
tions, the  richer  parishioners  who  had  chosen  this  bright 
Sunday  morning  as  eligible  for  church-going.     It  was 
the  rural  fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  important; 
members  of  the  congregation  to  depart  first,  while  their  lo 
humbler  neighbors  waited  and  looked  on,  stroking  their 
bent  heads  or  dropping  their  courtesies  to  any  large 
rate-payer  who  turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well- 
clad  people  there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recognize  15 
in  spite  of  Time,  who  has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all. 
The  tall  blond  man  of  forty  is  not  much  changed  in 
feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass  of  six-and-twenty;  he 
is  only  fuller  in  flesh,  and  has  only  lost  the  indefinable 
look  of  youth — a  loss  which  is  marked  even  when  the  20 
eye  is  undulled  and  the  wrinkles  are  not  yet  come. 
Perhaps  the  pretty  woman,  not  much  younger  than  he, 
who  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than  her 
husband;  the  lovely  bloom  that  used  to  be  always  on 
her  cheek  now  comes  but  fitfully,  with  the  fresh  morn-  26 

211 


212  SILAS  MARNER 

ing  air  or  with  some  strong  surprise;  yet  to  all  who 
love  human  faces  best  for  what  they  tell  of  human 
experience^  JSTancy^s  beauty  has  a  heightened  interest. 
Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness  while  age 
5  has  spread  an  ugly  film^  so  that  mere  glances  can  never 
divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But  the  years 
have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The  firm  yet  placid 
mouthy  the  clear  veracious  glance  of  the  brown  eyes, 
speak  now  of  a  nature  that  has  been  tested  and  has 

10  kept  its  highest  qualities;  and  even  the  costume,  wHh 
its  dainty  neatness  and  purity,  has  more  significance 
now  the  coquetries  of  youth  can  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has 

15  died  away  from  Eaveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was 
gathered  to  his  fathers  and  his  inheritance  was  divided) 
have  turned  round  to  look  for  the  tall,  aged  man  and 
the  plainly  dressed  woman  who  are  a  little  behind — 
!N'ancy  having  observed  that  they  must  wait  for  "  father 

«o  and  Priscilla  ^^ — and  now  they  all  turn  into  a  narrower 
path  leading  across  the  churchyard  to  a  small  gate  op- 
posite the  Ked  House.  We  will  not  follow  them  now; 
for  may  there  not  be  some  others  in  this  departing  con- 
gregation whom  we  should  like  to  see  again — some  of 

25  those  who  are  not  likely  to  be  handsomely  clad,  and 
whom  we  may  not  recognize  so  easily  as  the  master 
and  mistress  of  the  Eed  House? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.     His 
large  brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vision, 

30  as  is  the  way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short-sighted 
in  early  life,  and  they  have  a  less  vague,  a  more  an- 
swering gaze;  but  in  everything  else  one  sees  signs  of 
a  frame  much  enfeebled  by  the  lapse  of  the  sixteen 


i 


SILAS  MARNER  213 

years.  The  weaver's  bent  shoulders  and  white  hair  give 
him  almost  the  look  of  advanced  age,  though  he  is  not 
more  than  five  and  fifty;  but  there  is  the  freshest 
blossom  of  youth  close  by  his  side — a  blond,  dimpled 
girl  of  eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chastise  her  5 
curly  auburn  hair  into  smoothness  under  her  brown 
bonnet;  the  hair  ripples  as  obstinately  as  a  brooklet 
under  the  March  breeze,  and  the  little  ringlets  burst 
away  from  the  restraining  comb  behind  and  show  them- 
selves below  the  bonnet  crown.  Eppie  can  not  help  lo 
being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for  there  is  no  other 
girl  in  Eaveloe  who  has  hair  at  all  like  it,  and  she 
thinks  hair  ought  to  be  smooth.  She  does  not  like  to 
be  blameworthy  even  in  small  things:  you  see  how 
neatly  her  prayer-book  is  folded  in  her  spotted  hand-  15 
kerchief. 

That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian 
suit,  who  walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the 
question  of  hair  in  the  abstract  when  Eppie  puts  it  to 
him,  and  thinks  that  perhaps  straight  hair  is  the  best  20 
in  general,  but  he  doesn't  want  Eppie's  hair  to  be  dif- 
ferent. She  surely  divines  that  there  is  some  one  be- 
hind her  who  is  thinking  about  her  very  particularly, 
and  mustering  courage  to  come  to  her  side  as  soon  as 
they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else  why  should  she  look  25 
rather  shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn  away  her  head 
from  her  father  Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring 
little  sentences  as  to  who  was  at  church,  and  who  was 
not  at  church,  and  how  pretty  the  red  mountain-ash  is 
over  the  Rectory  wall!  30 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double 
daisies  in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie,  when 
they  were  out  in  the  lane;  ^^  only  they  say  it  'ud  take 


214  SILAS  MARNER 

a  deal  of  digging  and  bringing  fresh  soil — and  you 
conldn^t  do  that,  could  you,  father?  Anyhow,  I 
shouldn't  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  ^ud  be  too  hard  work 
for  you/'  V 

5  "  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  chil^,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  gar- 
den: these  long  evenings  I  could  work  at  taking  in  a 
little  bit  o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two  o' 
flowers  for  you;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could  have 
a  turn  wi'  the  spade  before  I  sat  down  to  the  loom. 
10  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  as  you  wanted  a  bit  o^ 
garden  ? '' 

"7  can  dig  it  for  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  the 
young  man  in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side, 
entering  into  the  conversation  without  the  trouble  of 
15  formalities.  "  It'll  be  play  to  me  after  I've  done  my 
day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o'  time  when  the  work's 
slack.  And  I'll  bring  you  some  soil  from  Mr.  Cass's 
garden — he'll  let  me,  and  willing." 

^^Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there?"  said  Silas. 

^0  "^  I  wasn't  aware  of  you;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o^ 

things  I  see  nothing  but  what  she's  a-saying.     Well, 

if  you  could  help  me  with  the  digging,  we  might  get 

her  a  bit  o'  garden  all  the  sooner." 

"  Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron, 
25  "  I'll  come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll 
.  settle  what  land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an 
hour  earlier  i'  the  morning,  and  begin  on  it." 

"  But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me   not  to   work 

at   the   hard   digging,   father,"   said   Eppie.      "  For   I 

30  shouldn't  ha'  said  anything  about  it,"  she  added,  half 

bashfully,  lialf  roguishly,  ''  only  Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as 

Aaron  'ud  be  so  good,  and " 

"  And  you  might  ha'  known  it  without  mother  tell^ 


SILAS  MARKER  215 

ing  you/^  said  Aaron.  "  And  Master  Marner  knows 
too,  I  hope,  as  I'm  able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o'  work 
for  him,  and  he  won't  do  me  the  unkindness  to  any- 
ways take  it  out  o'  my  hands." 

"  There,  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till  it's  5 
all  easy,"  said  Eppie;  "  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out 
the  beds,  and  make  holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It'll  be 
a  deal  livelier  at  the  Stone-pits  when  we've  got  some 
flowers,  for  I  always  think  the  flowers  can  see  us  and 
know  what  we're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have  a  bit  lo 
o'  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme,  because  they're 
50  sweet  smelling;  but  there's  no  lavender  only  in  the 
gentlefolks'  gardens,  I  think." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some," 
said  Aaron,  '^  for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything;  15 
I'm  forced  to  cut  no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening, 
xnd  throw  'em  away  mostly.     There's  a  big  bed  o'  lav- 
3nder  at  the  Eed  House;  the  missis  is  very  fond  of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Silas  gravely,  "  so  as  you  don't  make 
free  for  us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth  much  at  20 
the  Eed  House;  for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and 
built  us  up  the  new  end  o'  the  cottage,  and  given  us 
beds  and  things,  as  I  couldn't  abide  to  be  imposin'  for 
garden  stuff  or  anything  else." 

"  No,  no,  there's  no  imposin',"  said  Aaron;  "  there's  25 
never  a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  w^hat  there's  end- 
less waste  in  it  for  want  o'  somebody  as  could  use  every- 
thing up.  It's  what  I  think  to  myself  sometimes,  as 
there  need  nobody  run  short  o'  victuals  if  the  land  was 
made  the  most  on,  and  there  was  never  a  morsel  but  30 
what  could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.  It  sets  one  think- 
ing o'  that — gardening  does.  But  I  must  go  back  now, 
else  mother  'ull  be  in  trouble  as  I  aren't  there," 


216  SILAS  MARNER 

"Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron/^  said 
Eppie;  "I  shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and 
her  not  know  everything  fi^om  the  first — should  you, 
father?  ^^  J 

5  "Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,^'  said  Silas; 
"  she's  sure  to  have  a  word  to  say  as  '11  help  us  to  set 
things  on  their  right  end." 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and 
Eppie  went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

10  "  0  daddy! ''  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy, 
clasping  and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and  skipping  round 
to  give  him  an  energetic  kiss.  "My  little  old  daddy! 
I'm  so  glad.  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  anything  else 
when  we've  got  a  little  garden;  and  I   knew  Aaron 

15  would  dig  it  for  us,"  she  went  on  with  roguish  triumph; 
"  I  knew  that  very  well." 

"  You're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas, 
with  the  mild,  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned  age 
in  his  face;  "  but  you'll  make  yourself  fine  and  be- 

20  holden  to  Aaron." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shan't,"  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisk- 
ing; "he  likes  it." 

"  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else 
you'll  be  dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  way." 

25  Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behavior  was  under 
observation,  but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a  friend- 
ly donkey,  browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his  foot — 
a  meek  donkey,  not  scornfully  critical  of  human  trivi- 
alities, but  thankful  to  share  in  them,  if  possible,  by 

30  getting  his  nose  scratched;  and  Eppie  did  not  fail  to 
gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice,  though  it  was  at- 
tended with  the  inconvenience  of  his  following  them, 
painfully,  up  to  the  very  door  of  their  home. 


SILAS  MARKER  217 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put 
the  key  in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's  views,  and 
he  limped  away  again  without  bidding.  The  sharp 
bark  was  the  sign  of  an  excited  welcome  that  was  await- 
ing them  from  a  knowing  brown  terrier,  who,  after  5 
dancing  at  their  leg&  in  a  hysterical  manner,  rushed 
with  a  w^orrying  noise  at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten  under 
the  loom,  and  then  rushed  back  with  a  sharp  bark 
again,  as  much  as  to  say,  ''  I  have  done  my  duty  by  this 
feeble  creature,  you  perceive  ^^;  while  the  lady-mother  10 
of  the  kitten  sat  sunning  her  white  bosom  in  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  round  with  a  sleepy  air  of  expecting 
caresses,  though  she  was  not  going  to  take  any  trouble 
for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the  15 
only  change  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the 
stone  cottage.     There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living 
room,  and  the  small  space  was  well  filled  with  decent 
furniture,  all  bright  and  clean  enough  to  satisfy  Dolly 
Winthrop's  eye.     The  oaken  table  and  three-cornered  20 
oaken  chair  were  hardly  what  was  likely  to  be  seen  in 
so  poor  a  cottage;  they  had  come,  with  the  beds  and 
other  things,  from  the  Eed  House;  for  Mr.   Godfrey 
Cass,  as  every  one  said  in  the  village,  did  very  kindly 
by  the  weaver;  and  it  was  nothing  but  right  a  man  25 
should  be  looked  on  and  helped  by  those  who  could 
afford  it,  when  he  had  brought  up  an  orphan  child, 
and  been  father  and  mother  to  her — and  had  lost  his 
money,  too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he  worked 
for  week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving  was  going  30 
down,  too — for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun — and 
Master  Mamer  was  none  so  young.     Nobody  wa«  jeal- 
ous of  the  weaver,  for  he  was  regarded  as  an  excep- 


218  SILAS  MARKER 

tional  person^  whose  claims  on  neighborly  help  were 
not  to  be  matched  in  Eaveloe.  Any  superstition  that 
remained  concerning  him  liM  taken  an  entirely  new 
color;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a)  very  feeble  old  man  of 

5  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his  chimney 
corner  or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  doorsill,  was  of 
opinion  that  when  a  man  had  done  what  Silas  had  done 
by  an  orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that  his  money  would 
come  to  light  again,  or  leastwise  that  the  robber  would 

10  be  made  to  answer  for  it;  for,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed 
of  himself,  his  faculties  were  as  strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  satis- 
fied gaze  as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it 
the  potato  pie,  warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday  fash- 

15  ion,  by  being  put  into  a  dry  pot  over  a  slowly  dying  fire, 
as  the  best  substitute  for  an  oven.  For  Silas  would 
not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and  oven  added  to  his  con- 
veniences: he  loved  the  old  brick  hearth  as  he  had  loved 
his  brown  pot — and  was  it  not  there  when  he  had  found 

20  Eppie?  The  gods  of  the  hearth  exist  for  us  still;  and 
let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that  fetichism,  less  it 
bruise  its  own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon 
laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half  ab- 

25  stractedly  Eppie's  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by  which 
her  own  dining  was  made  rather  a  lengthy  business. 
Yet  it  was  a  sight  that  might  well  arrest  wandering 
thoughts:  Eppie,  with  the  rippling  radiance  of  her  hair 
and  the  whiteness  of  her  rounded  chin  and  throat  set 

%o  off  by  the  dark-blue  cotton  gown,  laughing  merrily  as 
the  kitten  held  on  with  her  four  claws  to  one  shoulder, 
like  a  design  for  a  jug  handle,  while  Snap  on  the  right 
hand  and  Puss  on  the  other  put  up  their  paws  toward  a 


:S1LAS   MAKJSEU  219 

morsel  which  she  held  out  of  the  reach  of  both — Snap 
occasionally  desisting  in  order  to  remonstrate  with  the 
cat  by  a  cogent  worrying  growl  on  the  greediness  and 
futility  of  her  conduct;  till  Eppie  relented,  caressed 
them  both,  and  divided  the  morsel  between  them.  5 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked 
the  play  and  said,  "  0  daddy,  you^re  wanting  to  go 
into  the  sunshine  to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must 
clear  away  first,  so  as  the  house  may  be  tidy  when  god- 
mother comes.     I'll  make  haste — I  won't  be  long."        lo 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the 
last  two  years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it  by  the 
sages  of  Eaveloe,  as  a  practice  ^^good  for  the  fits''; 
and  this  advice  was  sanctioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  as  well  to  try  what  could  do  no  15 
harm — a  principle  which  was  made  to  answer  for  a 
great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman's  medical  practice. 
Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smoking,  and  often  wondered 
how  his  neighbors  could  be  so  fond  of  it;  but  a  hum- 
ble sort  of  acquiescence  in  what  was  held  to  be  good  20 
had  become  a  strong  habit  of  that  new  self  which  had 
been  developed  in  him  since  he  had  found  Eppie  on 
his  hearth;  it  had  been  the  only  clew  his  bewildered 
mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing  this  young  life  that 
had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  into  which  25 
his  gold  had  departed.  By  seeking  what  was  needful 
for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  everything  pro- 
duced on  her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appropriate  the 
forms  of  custom  and  belief  which  were  the  mold  of 
Raveloe  life;  and  as,  with  reawakening  sensibilities,  30 
memory  also  reawakened,  he  had  begun  to  ponder  over 
the  elements  of  his  old  faith,  and  blend  them  with  his 
new  impressions,  til]  he  recovered  a  consciousness  of 


220  SILAS  MARKER 

unity  between  his  past  and  present.  The  sense  of  pre- 
siding goodness  and  the  humin  trust  which  come  with 
all  pure  peace  and  joy  had  given  him  a  dim  impression 
that  there  had  been  some  error,  some  mistake,  which 
5  had  thrown  that  dark  shadow  over  the  days  of  his  best 
years;  and  as  it  grew  more  and  more  easy  to  him  to 
open  his  mind  to  Dolly  Winthrop,  he  gradually  com- 
municated to  her  all  he  could  describe  of  his  early  life. 
The  communication  was  necessarily  a  slow  and  difficult 

10  process,  for  Silases  meager  power  of  explanation  was 
not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  interpretation  in  Dolly, 
whose  narrow  outward  experience  gave  her  no  key  to 
strange  customs,  and  made  every  novelty  a  source  of 
wonder  that  arrested  them  at  every  step  of  the  narra- 

15  tive.  It  was  only  by  fragments,  and  at  intervals  which 
left  Dolly  time  to  revolve  what  she  had  heard  till  it 
acquired  some  familiarity  for  her,  that  Silas  at  last 
arrived  at  the  climax  of  the  sad  story — the  drawing  of 
lots,  and  its  false  testimony  concerning  him;  and  this 

20  had  to  be  repeated  in  several  interviews,  under  new 
questions  on  her  part  as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan  for 
detecting  the  guilty  and  clearing  the  innocent. 

"  And  yourn^s  the  same  Bible,  you^re  sure  o'  that. 
Master  Marner — the  Bible  as  you  brought  wi'  you  from 

25  that  country — it's  the  same  as  what  they've  got  at 
church,  and  w^hat  Eppie's  a-learning  to  read  in  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  "  every  bit  the  same;  and  there's 
drawing  o'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added  in 
a  lower  tone. 

30  ''  Oh,  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly,  in  a  grieved  voice,  as 
if  she  were  hearing  an  unfavorable  report  of  a  sick 
man's  case.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  at  last 
she  said— 


SILAS  MARNER  221 

^^  There's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  know  how  it  all  is; 
the  parson  knows,  I'll  be  bound;  but  it  takes  big  words 
to  tell  them  things,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can't  make 
much  out  on.  I  can  never  rightly  know  the  meaning 
o'  what  I  hear  at  church,  only  a  bit  here  and  there,  5 
but  I  know  it's  good  words — I  do.  But  what  lies  upo' 
your  mind — it's  this,  Master  Marner:  as,  if  Them  above 
had  done  the  right  thing  by  you.  They'd  never  ha'  let 
you  be  turned  out  for  a  wicked  thief  when  you  was 
innicent."  lo 

"Ah!"  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  under- 
stand Dolly's  phraseology,  "that  was  what  fell  on  me 
like  as  if  it  had  been  red-hot  iron ;  because,  you  see, 
there  was  nobody  as  cared  for  me  or  clave  to  me  above 
nor  below.  And  him  as  I'd  gone  out  and  in  wi'  for  is 
ten  year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads  and  went 
halves — mine  own  familiar  friend,  in  whom  I  trusted, 
had  lifted  up  his  heel  again'  me,  and  worked  to 
ruin  me." 

"  Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un — I  can't  think  as  there's  20 
another  such,"  said  Dolly.     "  But  I'm  o'ercome.  Mas- 
ter Marner;  I'm  like  as  if  I'd  waked  and  didn't  know 
whether  it  was  night  or  morning.     I  feel  somehow  as 
sure  as  I  do  when  I've  laid  something  up  though  I 
can't  justly  put  my  hand  on  it,  as  there  was  a  rights  25 
in  what  happened  to  you,  if  one  could  but  make  it 
out;  and  you'd  no  call  to  lose  heart  as  you  did.      But 
we'll  talk   on   it   again;   for   sometimes   things   come 
into   my   head   when   I'm   leeching   or   poulticing,    or 
such,  as  I  could  never  think  on  when  I  was  sitting  3« 
still." 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many 
opportunities  of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded 


222  SILAS  MARNER 

to^  and  she  was  not  long  be|ore  she  recurred  to  the 
subject.  / 

"  Master  Marner/^  she  s^ud^,  one  day  that  she  came 
to  bring  home  Eppie's  washing,  "  Tve  been  sore  puz- 
5  zled  for  a  good  bit  wi^  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and  the 
drawing  o'  lots;  and  it  got  twisted  backwards  and  for- 
wards, as  I  didn't  know  which  end  to  lay  hold  on.  But 
it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that  night  when  I  was 
sitting  up  wi'  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  as  is  dead  and  left 

10  her  children  behind,  God  help  'em — it  come  to  me  as 
clear  as  daylight;  but  whether  I\e  got  hold  on  it  now, 
or  can  anyways  bring  it  to  my  tongue's  end,  that  I 
don't  know.  For  I've  often  a  deal  inside  me  as  '11  never 
come  out;  and  for  what  you  talk  o'  your  folks  in  your 

15  old  country  niver  saying  prayers  by  heart  nor  saying 
'em  out  of  a  book,  they  must  be  wonderful  cliver;  for 
if  I  didn't  know  ^  Our  Father,'  and  little  bits  o'  good 
words  as  I  can  carry  out  o'  church  wi'  me,  I  might  down 
o'  my  knees  every  night,  but  nothing  could  I  say." 

20  "  But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make 
sense  on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  said  Silas. 

"  Well,  then.  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat 
like  this:  I  can  make  nothing  o'  the  drawing  o'  lots 
and  the  answer  coming  wrong;  it  'ud  mayhap  take  the 

25  parson  to  tell  that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i'  big 
words.  But  what  come  to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight, 
it  was  when  I  was  troubling  over  poor  Bessy  FawkeSj 
and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head  when  I'm  sorry  for 
folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a  power  to  help  'em,  not  if 

30  I  was  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o'  the  night — it  comes 
into  my  head  as  Them  above  has  got  a  deal  tenderer 
heart  nor  what  I've  got — for  I  can't  be  anyways  bet- 
ter nor  Them  as  made  me;  and  if  anything  looks  hard 


SILAS  MARNER  223 

to  me,  it^s  because  there's  things  I  don't  know  on; 
and  for  the  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o'  things 
I  don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know — that  it  is. 
And  so,  while  I  was  thinking  o'  that,  you  come  into 
my  mind.  Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in —  5 
if  I  felt  i'  my  inside  what  was  the  right  and  just  thing 
by  you,  and  them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the  lots,  all 
but  that  wicked  un,  if  they'di  ha'  done  the  right  thing 
by  you  if  they  could,  isn't  there  Them  as  was  at  the 
making  on  us,  and  knows  better  and  has  a  better  will?  lo 
And  that's  all  as  ever  I  can  be  sure  on,  and  everything 
else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me  when  I  think  on  it.  For 
there  was  the  fever  come  and  took  off  them  as  were  full- 
growed,  and  left  the  helpless  children;  and  there's  the 
breaking  o'  limbs;  and  them  as  'ud  do  right  and  be  15 
sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are  contrairy — eh, 
there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's  things  as  we 
can  niver  make  out  the  rights  on.  And  all  as  we've 
got  to  do  is  to  trusten.  Master  Marner — to  do  the  right 
thing  as  fur  as  we  know,  and  to  trusten.  For  if  us  20 
as  knows  so  little  can  see  a  bit  o'  good  and  rights,  we 
may  be  sure  as  there's  a  good  and  a  rights  bigger  nor 
what  we  can  know — I  feel  it  i'  my  inside  as  it  must  be 
so.  And  if  you  could  but  ha'  gone  on  trustening,  Mas- 
ter Marner,  you  wouldn't  ha'  run  away  from  your  fel-  25 
low-creaturs  and  been  so  lone." 

"  Ah,  but  that  'ud  ha'  been  hard,"  said  Silas,  in  an 
undertone;  "it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"  And  so  it  would,"  said  Dolly,  almost  with  com- 
punction; "them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done;  and  30 
I'm  partly  ashamed  0'  talking." 

"iSTay,  nay,"  said  Silas,  "you're  i'  the  right,  Mrs. 
Winthrop — you're  i'  the  right.     There's  good  i'  this 


224  SILAS  MARNER 

world — I've  a  feeling  o'  that  now;  and  it  makes  a  nian 
feel  as  there's  a  good  more  :Hor  he  can  see,  i'  spite 
o'  the  trouble  and  the  wickedness.  That  drawing  o' 
the  lots  is  dark;  but  the  child  was  sent  to  me:  there's 

^5  dealings  with  us — there's  dealings." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years, 
when  Silas  had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every 
day,  that  she  might  learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school, 
after  he  had  vainly  tried  himself  to  guide  her  in  that 

10  first  step  to  learning.  Now  that  she  was  grown  up, 
Silas  had  often  been  led,  in  those  moments  of  quiet 
outpouring  which  come  to  people  who  live  together  in 
perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her,  too,  of  the  past,  and  how 
and  why  he  had  lived  a  lonely  man  until  she  had  been 

15  sent  to  him.  For  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  hide  from  Eppie  that  she  was  not  his  own 
child:  even  if  the  most  delicate  reticence  on  the  point 
could  have  been  expected  from  Eaveloe  gossips  in  her 
presence,  her  own  questions  about  her  mother  could 

20  not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up,  without  that 
complete  shrouding  of  the  past  which  would  have  made 
a  painful  barrier  between  their  minds.  So  Eppie  had 
long  known  how  her  mother  had  died  on  the  snowy 
ground,  and  how  she  herself  had  been  found  on  the 

25  hearth  by  father  Silas,  Avho  had  taken  her  golden  curls 
for  his  lost  guineas  brought  back  to  him.  The  tender 
and  peculiar  love  with  which  Silas  had  reared  her  in 
almost  inseparable  companionship  with  himself,  aided 
by  the  seclusion  of  their  dwelling,  had  preserved  her 

30  from  the  lowering  influences  of  the  village  talk  and 
habits,  and  had  kept  her  mind  in  that  freshness  which 
is  sometimes  falsely  supposed  to  be  an  invariable  at- 
tribute   of   rusticity.      Perfect   love    has    a   breath    of 


SILAS  MARNER  225 

poetry  which  can  exalt  the  relations  of  the  least  in- 
structed human  beings;  and  this  breath  of  poetry  had 
surrounded  Eppie  from  the  time  when  she  had  fol- 
lowed the  bright  gleam  that  beckoned  her  to  Silas's 
hearth;  so  that  it  is  not  surprising  if,  in  other  things  5 
besides  her  delicate  prettiness,  she  was  not  quite  a  com- 
mon village  maiden,  but  had  a  touch  of  refinement  and 
fervor  which  came  from  no  other  teaching  than  that 
of  tenderly  nurtured  unvitiated  feeling..  She  was  too 
childish  and  simple  for  her  imagination  to  rove  into  lo 
questions  about  her  unknown  father;  for  a  long  while 
it  did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  she  must  have  had 
a  father;  and  the  first  time  that  the  idea  of  her  mother 
having  had  a  husband  presented  itself  to  her  was  when 
Silas  showed  her  the  wedding-ring  which  had  been  15 
taken  from  the  wasted  finger,  and  had  been  carefully 
preserved  by  him  in  a  little  lacquered  box  shaped  like 
a  shoe.  He  delivered  this  box  into  Eppie's  charge  when 
she  had  grown  up,  and  she  often  opened  it  to  look  at 
the  ring;  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about  the  20 
father  of  whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had  she  not  a  fa- 
ther very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  better  than  any 
real  fathers  in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their  daugh- 
ters? On  the  contrary,  who  her  mother  was  and  how 
she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness  were  questions  that  25 
often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her  knowledge  of  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend  next  to  Silas, 
made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very  precious; 
and  she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to  tell  her 
how  her  mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like,  and  how  30 
he  had  found  her  against  the  furze  bush,  led  toward  it 
by  the  little  footsteps  and  the  outstretched  arms.  The 
furze  bush  was  there  still;  and  this  afternoon,  when 


226  SILAS  MARKER 

Eppie  came  out  with  Silas  into  the  sunshine^  it  was  the 
first  object  that  arrested  her  eyes  and  thoughts. 

"  Father/^  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity, 
which  sometimes  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence 
6  across  her  playfulness,  "  we  shall  take  the  furze  bush 
into  the  garden;  it'll  come  into  the  corner,  and  just 
against  it  I'll  put  snowdrops  and  crocuses,  ^cause  Aaron 
says  they  won't  die  out,  but'll  always  get  more  and 
more." 

10  "  Ah,  child  "  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when 
he  had  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the 
pauses  more  than  the  puffs,  "  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave 
out  the  furze  bush;  and  there's  nothing  prettier,  to 
my  thinking,  when  it's  yallow  with  flowers.     But  it's 

15  just  come  into  my  head  what  we're  to  do  for  a  fence 
— mayhap  Aaron  can  help  us  to  a  thought;  but  a  fence 
we  must  have^  else  the  donkeys  and  things  'ull  come 
and  trample  everything  down.  And  fencing's  hard  to 
be  got  at,  by  what  I  can  make  out." 

20  ''  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  her 
hands  suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought.  "  There's 
lots  o'  loose  stones  about,  some  of  'em  not  big,  and  we 
might  lay  'em  atop  of  one  another,  and  make  a  wall. 
You  and  me  could  carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud 

25  carry  the  rest — I  know  he  would." 

"  Eh,    my   precious   un,"    said    Silas,    "  there   isn't  - 
enough  stones  to  go  all  round;  and  as  for  you  carry- 
ing, why,  wi'  your  little  arms  you  couldn't  carry  a  stone 
no  bigger  than  a  turnip.     You're  dillicate  made,  my 

80  dear,"  he  added,  with  a  tender  intonation — "  that's 
what  Mrs.  Winthrop  says." 

"  Oh,  I'm  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,"   said 
Eppie;  "  and  if  there  wasn't  stones  enough  to  go  all 


SILAS  MARNER  227 

round,  why  they'll  go  part  o'  the  way,  and  then  it'll 
be  easier  to  get  sticks  and  things  for  the  rest.  See 
here,  round  the  big  pit,  what  a  many  stones!  " 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one 
of  the  stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she  started  5 
back  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,"  she  ex- 
claimed; "  come  and  see  how  the  water's  gone  down 
since  yesterday!  Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so 
full! "  10 

"Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side. 
"  Why,  that's  the  draining  they've  begun  on,  since  har- 
vest, i'  Mr.  Osgood's  fields,  I  reckon.  The  foreman 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  passed  by  'em,  '  Mas- 
ter Marner,'  he  said,  '  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  lay  your  15 
bit  0'  waste  as  dry  as  a  bone.'  It  was  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass, 
he  said,  had  gone  into  the  draining:  he'd  been  taking 
these  fields  0'  Mr.  Osgood." 

"  How  odd  it'll  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up! " 
said  Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  2a 
a  large  stone.     "  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite 
well,"  she  said,  going  along  with  much  energy  for  a 
few  steps,  but  presently  letting  it  fall. 

"  Ah,  you're  fine  and  strong,  aren't  you  ? "  said 
Silas,  while  Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed.  25 
"'  Come,  come,  let  us  go  and  sit  down  on  the  bank 
against  the  stile  there,  and  have  no  more  lifting.  You 
might*  hurt  yourself,  child.  You'd  need  have  some- 
body to  work  for  you — and  my  arm  isn't  over  strong.'^ 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  im-  30 
plied  more  than  met  the  ear;  and  Eppie,  when  they 
sat  down  on  the  bank,  nestled  close  to  his  side,  and, 
taking  hold  caressingly  of  the  arm  that  was  not  over 


228  SILAS  MARITOR 


strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while  Silas  puffed  again 
dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied  his  other  arm. 
An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind  made  a  fretted  screen 
from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  playful  shadows  all 
5  about  them. 

"  Father,^^  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had 
been  sitting  in  silence  a  little  while,  '^  if  I  was  to  be 
married,  ought  I  to  be  married  with  my  mother's 
ring  ?  ^' 
10  Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though 
the  question  fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought 
in  his  own  mind,  and  then  said,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
"Why,  Eppie,  have  you  been  a-thinking  on  it?^^ 

"  Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenu- 
15  ously,  "  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 

^^  And  what  did  he  say?"  said  Silas,  still  in  the 
same  subdued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  should 
fall  into  the  slightest  tone  that  was  not  for  Eppie^s 
good. 
20  "  He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he 
was  a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal 
of  gardening  work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up;  and  he 
goes  twice  a  week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass's,  and  once  to 
Mr.  Osgood's,  and  they're  going  to  take  him  on  at  the 
25  Eectory." 

"And  who  is  it  as  he's  wanting  to  marry?"  said 
Silas,  with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

"  Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,-  with 
dimpling  laughter,  kissing  her  father's  cheek;  "as  if 
30  he'd  want  to  marry  anybody  else!  " 

"  And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you  ?  "  said  Silas. 

"  Yes,  some  time,"  said  Eppie,  "  I  don't  know  when. 

Everybody's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.     But  I 


SILAS  MARKER  229 

told  him  that  wasn't  true;  for,  I  said,  look  at  father 
—he's  never  been  married." 

'*^No,  child/'  said  Silas,  "your  father  was  a  lone 
man  till  you  was  sent  to  him." 

"  But  you'll  never  be  lone  again,  father,"  said  5 
Eppie  tenderly.  "  That  was  what  Aaron  said — '  I 
could  never  think  o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Mar- 
ner,  Eppie.'  And  I  said,  '  It  'ud  be  no  use  if  you  did, 
Aaron.'  And  he  wants  us  all  to  live  together,  so  as 
you  needn't  work  a  bit,  father,  only  what's  for  your  own  lo 
pleasure;  and  he'd  be  as  good  as  a  son  to  you — ^that 
was  what  he  said." 

"And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie?"  said  Silas, 
looking  at  her. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,"  said  Eppie,  quite  15 
simply.  "And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you 
needn't  work  much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd 
sooner  things  didn't  change.  I'm  very  happy:  I  like 
Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and  come  and  see  us  often, 
and  behave  pretty  to  you — he  always  does  behave  pretty  20 
to  you,  doesn't  he,  father?" 

"  Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said  Silas 
emphatically.     "He's  his  mother's  lad." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  change,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
should  like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we  are.  25 
Only  Aaron  does  want  a  change;  and  he  made  me  cry 
a  bit — only  a  bit — because  he  said  I  didn't  care  for  him, 
for  if  I  cared  for  him  I  should  want  us  to  be  married, 
as  he  did." 

*'  Eh,  my  blessed  child,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his  30 
pipe  as  if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  longer, 
"  you're  o'er  young  to  be  married.     We'll  ask  Mrs.  Win- 
throp — we'll  ask  Aaron's  mother  what  she  thinks;  if 


230  SILAS  MARNER 

there's  a  right  thing  to  do,  she'll  come  at  it.  But 
there's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Eppie:  things  will  change, 
whether  we  like  it  or  not;  things  won't  go  on  for  a 
long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  difference.  I  shall 
5  get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burden  on  you,  bcr 
like,  if  I  don't  go  away  from  you  altogether.  Not  as 
I  mean  you'd  think  me  a  burden — I  know  you  wouldn't 
— but  it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you;  and  when  I  look  for- 
'ard  to  that,  I  like  to  think  as  you'd  have  somebody  else 

10  besides  me — somebody  young  and  strong,  as'll  outlast 
your  own  life,  and  take  care  on  you  to  the  end."  Silas 
paused,  and,  resting  his  wrists  on  his  knees,  lifted  his 
hands  up  and  down  meditatively  as  he  looked  on  the 
ground. 

15  ^^  Then,  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father?  " 
said  Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said  Silas 
emphatically;  "  but  we'll  ask  your  godmother.  She'll 
wish  the  right  thing  by  you  and  her  son,  too." 

80  ^^  There  they  come  then,"  said  Eppie.  "  Let  us  go 
and  meet  'em.  Oh,  the  pipe!  won't  you  have  it  lit 
again,  father  ?  "  said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  ap- 
pliance from  the  ground. 

^^  N'ay,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  I've  done  enough  for  to- 

35  day.  I  think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more  good 
than  so  much  at  once." 


CHAPTEK  XVII 

While  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank 
discoursing  in  the  fleckered  shade  of  the  ash-tree,  Miss 
Priscilla  Lammeter  was  resisting  her  sister's  arguments, 
that  it  would  be  better  to  take  tea  at  the  Eed  House, 
and  let  her  father  have  a  long  nap,  than  drive  home  5 
to  the  Warrens  so  soon  after  dinner.  The  family  party 
(of  four  only)  were  seated  round  the  table  in  the  dark 
wainscoted  parlor,  with  the  Sunday  dessert  before  them, 
of  fresh  filberts,  apples,  and  pears,  duly  ornamented 
with  leaves  by  Nancy's  own  hand  before  the  bells  had  lO 
rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted 
parlor  since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bachelor  days,  and 
under  the  wifeless  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  ISTow  all 
is  polish,  on  which  no  yesterday's  dust  is  ever  allowed  15 
to  rest,  from  the  yard's  width  of  oaken  boards  round 
the  carpet  to  the  old  Squire's  gun  and  whips  and  walk- 
ing-sticks, ranged  on  the  stag's  antlers  above  the  man- 
telpiece. All  other  signs  of  sporting  and  outdoor  occu- 
pation N^ancy  has  removed  to  another  room;  but  she  ao 
has  brought  into  the  Eed  House  the  habit  of  filial  rev- 
erence, and  preserves  sacredly  in  a  place  of  honor  these 
relics  of  her  husband's  departed  father.  The  tankards 
are  on  the  side-table  still,  but  the  bossed  silver  is  un- 
dimmed  by  handling,  and  there  are  no  dregs  to  send  2^ 

231 


232  SILAS  MARKER 

forth  unpleasant  suggestions:  the  only  prevailing  scent 
is  of  the  lavender  and  rose  leaves  that  fill  the  vases  of 
Derbyshire  spar.  All  is  purity  and  order  in  this  once 
dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years  ago,  it  was  entered  by 
5  a  new  presiding  spirit. 

''  Nay,  f ather,^^  said  Xancy,  "  is  there  any  call  for 
you  to  go  home  to  tea?  Mayn^t  you  just  as  well 
stay  with  us? — such  a  beautiful  evening  as  it's  likely 
to  be.'' 

10        The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey 

about  the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous  times, 

and  had  not  heard  the  dialogue  between  his  daughters. 

^^  My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,"  he  said,  in  the 

once  firm  voice,  now  become   rather  broken.      "  She 

15  manages  me  and  the  farm  too." 

"  And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you,  father," 
said  Priscilla,  ^^  else  you'd  be  giving  yourself  your  death 
with  rheumatism.  And  as  for  the  farm,  if  anything 
turns  out  wrong,  as  it  can't  but  do  in  these  times,  there's 

20  nothing  kills  a  man  so  soon  as  having  nobody  to  find 
fault  with  but  himself.  It's  a  deal  the  best  way  o^ 
being  master,  to  let  somebody  else  do  the  ordering,  and 
keep  the  blaming  in  your  own  hands.  It  'ud  save  many 
a  man  a  stroke,  /  believe." 

25  "  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet 
laugh,  "  I  didn't  say  you  don't  manage  for  everybody's 
good." 

"^  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla," 
said  Nancy,  putting  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm  affec- 

30  tionately.  "  Come,  now;  and  we'll  go  round  the  gar- 
den while  father  has  his  nap." 

"My  dear  child,  he'll  have  a  beautiful  nap  in  the 
gig,  for  I  shall  drive.     And  as  for  staying  tea,  I  can't 


SILAS  MARKER  233 

hear  of  it;  for  there's  this  dairymaid,  now  she  knows 
she's  to  be  married,  turned  Michaelmas,  she'd  as  lieve 
pour  the  new  milk  into  the  pig  trough  as  into  the  pans. 
That's  the  way  with  'em  all:  it's  as  if  they  thought  the 
world  'ud  be  new-made  because  they're  to  be  married.  5 
So  come  and  let  me  put  my  bonnet  on,  and  there'll  be 
time  for  us  to  walk  round  the  garden  while  the  horse 
is  being  put  in." 

When  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly  swept 
garden  walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted  lo 
pleasantly  with  the  dark  cones  and  arches  and  wall- 
like hedges  of  yew,  Priscilla  said — 

'"  I'm  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband's  mak- 
ing that  exchange  o'  land  with   cousin   Osgood,  and 
beginning   the   dairying.     It's   a   thousand   pities   you  15 
didn't  do  it  before;  for  it'll  give  you  something  to  fill 
your  mind.     There's  nothing  like  a  dairy  if  folks  want 
a  bit  o'  worrit  to  make  the  days  pass.     For  as  for  rub- 
bing furniture,  Avhen  you  can  once  see  your  face  in  a 
table  there's  nothing  else  to  look  for;  but  there's  always  20 
something  fresh  with  the  dairy;  for  even  in  the  depths 
o'  winter  there's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the  butter, 
and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.     My  dear,"  added 
Priscilla,   pressing  her   sister's   hand   affectionately   as 
they  walked  side  by  side,  "you'll  never  be  low  when  2^ 
you've  got  a  dairy." 

"  Ah,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pressure 
with  a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "  but  it  won't 
make  up  to  Godfrey:  a  dairy's  not  so  much  to  a  man. 
And  it's  only  what  he  cares  for  that  ever  makes  me  3^ 
low.  I'm  contented  with  the  blessings  we  have,  if  he 
could  be  contented." 

"  It  drives  me  past  patience."  said  Priscilla  impeta- 


234  SILAS  MARKER 

ously^   "'^that   way   o'   the   men — always   wanting   and 
wanting,  and  never  easy  with  what  they've  got:  they 
can't  sit  comfortable  in  their  chairs  when  they've  nei- 
ther ache  nor  pain,  hut  either  they  must  stick  a  pipe- 
5  in  their  mouths,  to  make  'em  better  than  well,  or  else 
they   must   be   swallowing    something    strong,    though 
they're  forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal  comes^ 
in.     But  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  was  never  that 
sort  o'  man.     And  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  make  you 
10  ugly,  like  me,  so  as  the  men  wouldn't  ha'  run  after 
you,  we  might  have  kept  to  our  own  family,  and  had 
nothing  to  do  with  folks  as  have  got  uneasy  blood  in 
X^       their  veins." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  repenting 
15  that  she  had  called  forth  this  outburst;  "  nobody  has 
any  occasion  to  find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It's  natural 
he  should  be  disappointed  at  not  having  any  children:: 
every  man  likes  to  have  somebody  to  work  for  and  lay 
by  for,  and  he  always  counted  so  on  making  a  fuss 
20  with  'em  when  they  were  little.  There's  many  another 
man  'ud  hanker  more  than  he  does.  He's  the  best  ot' 
husbands." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically, 

"  I  know  the  way  o'  wives;  they  set  one  on  to  abuse 

25  their  husbands,  and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and 

praise  'em  as  if  they  wanted  to  sell  'em.     But  father'll 

be  waiting  for  me;  we  must  turn  now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  gray  was  at  the 

front  door,  and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stone 

30  steps,  passing  the  time  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what 

very  fine  points  Speckle  had  when  his  master  used  to- 

ride  him." 

"I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know; 


^y- 


SILAS  'MARNER  235 

;said  the  old  gentleman,  not  liking  that  spirited  time 
to  be  quite  effaced  from  the  memory  of  his  juniors. 

''  Mind  you  bring  JSTancy  to  the  Warrens  before  the 
week's  out,  Mr.  Cass/'  was  Priscilla's  parting  injunc- 
tion, as  she  took  the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by  5 
way  of  friendly  incitement  to  Speckle. 

^^I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the 
Stone-pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,''  said 
Godfrey. 

''You'll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear?".  lo 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to 
do  a  little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk. 
Nancy  seldom  accompanied  him;  for  the  women  of  her 
generation — unless,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  outdoor  15 
management — were  not  given  to  much  walking  beyond 
their  own  house  and  garden,  finding  sufficient  exercise 
in  domestic  duties.  So,  when  Priscilla  was  not  with 
her,  she  usually  sat  with  Mant's  Bible  before  her,  and 
after  following  the  text  with  her  eyes  for  a  little  while,  20 
she  would  gradually  permit  them  to  wander  as  her 
thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wandering. 

But  jSTancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  out 
of  keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention 
implied  by  the  book  spread  open  before  her.  She  was  25 
not  theologically  instructed  enough  to  discern  very 
clearly  the  relation  between  the  sacred  documents  of 
the  past  which  she  opened  without  method,  and  her  own 
obscure,  simple  life;  but  the  spirit  of  rectitude,  and 
the  sense  of  responsibility  for  the  effect  of  her  conduct  30 
on  others,  which  were  strong  elements  in  Nancy's  char- 
acter, had  made  it  a  habit  with  her  to  scrutinize  her 
past  feelings  and  actions  with  self-questioning  solici- 


236  SILAS  MARKER 

tude.  Her  mind  not  being  courted  by  a  great  variety 
of  subjects^  she  filled  the  vacant  moments  by  living 
inwardly^  again  and  again,  through  all  her  remembered 
experience,  especially  through  the  fifteen  years  of  her 
5  married  time,  in  which  her  life  and  its  significance  had 
been  doubled.  She  recalled  the  small  details,  the 
words,  tones,  and  looks,  in  the  critical  scenes  which  had 
opened  a  new  epoch  for  her  by  giving  her  a  deeper  in- 
sight into  the  relations  and  trials  of  life,  or  which  had 

10  called  on^  her  for  some  little  effort  of  forbearance,  or 
of  painful  adherence  to  an  imagined  or  real  duty — ask- 
ing herself  continually  whether  she  had  been  in  any 
respect  blamable.  This  excessive  rumination  and  self- 
questioning  is  perhaps  a  morbid  habit  inevitable  to  a 

15  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility  when  shut  out  from 
its  due  share  of  outward  activity  and  of  practical  claims 
on  its  affections — inevitable  to  a  noble-hearted,  child- 
less woman,  when  her  lot  is  narrow.  "  I  can  do  so 
little — have  I  done  it  all  well  ?  "  is  the  perpetually  re- 

20  curring  thought;  and  there  are  no  voices  calling  her 
away  from  that  soliloquy,  no  peremptory  demands  to 
divert  energy  from  vain  regret  or  superfluous  scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  painful  experience 
in  Nancy's  married  life,  and  on  it  hung  certain  deeply 

25  felt  scenes,  which  were  the  .  of tenest  revived  in  retro- 
4)ect.  The  short  dialogue  with  Priscilla  in  the  garden 
had  determined  the  current  of  retrospect  in  that  fre- 
quent direction  this  particular  Sunday  afternoon.  The 
first  wandering  of  her  thought  from  the  text,  which 

30  she  still  attempted  dutifully  to  follow  with  her  eyes 
and  silent  lips,  was  into  an  imaginary  enlargement  of 
the  defense  she  had  set  up  for  her  husband  against 
Priscilla's    implied    blame.      The    vindication    of    the 


SILAS  MARNER  237 

loved  object  is  the  best  balm  affection  can  find  for  its 
wounds.  ''  A  man  must  have  so  much  on  his  mind/^ 
is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife  often  supports  a  cheerful 
face  under  rough  answers  and  unfeeling  words.  And 
Nancy's  deepest  wounds  had  all  come  from  the  percep-  5 
tion  that  the  absence  of  children  from  their  hearth  was 
dwelt  on  in  her  husband's  mind  as  a  privation  to  which 
he  could  not  reconcile  himself. 

Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel 
still  more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to  which  she  i© 
had  looked  forward  with  all  the  varied  expectations 
and  preparations,  solemn  and  prettily  trivial,  which  fill 
the  mind  of  a  loving  woman  when  she  expects  to  be- 
come a  mother.     Was  there  not  a  drawer  filled  with 
the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all  unworn  and  untouched,  15 
just  as  she  had  arranged  it  there  fourteen  years  ago — 
just,  but  for  one  little  dress,  which  had  been  made  the 
burial  dress?     But  under  this  immediate  personal  trial 
Xancy  was  so  firmly  unmurmuring,  that  years  ago  she 
had    suddenly    renounced    the    habit    of    visiting    this  20 
drawer,  lest  she  should  in  this  way  be  cherishing  a 
longing  for  what  was  not  given. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  very  severity  toward  any  in- 
dulgence of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in  her- 
self that  made  her  shrink  from  applying  her  own  stand-  25 
ard  to  her  husband.  "  It  is  very  different — it  is  much 
worse  for  a  man  to  be  disappointed  in  that  way:  a 
woman  can  always  be  satisfied  with  devoting  herself 
to  her  husband,  but  a  man  wants  something  that  will 
make  him  look  forward  more — and  sitting  by  the  fire  30 
is  so  much  duller  to  him  than  to  a  woman.^'  And 
always,  when  Nancy  reached  this  point  in  her  medi- 
tations— trying,  with  predetermined  sympathy,  to  see 


238  SILAS  MARNER 

everything  as  Godfrey  saw  it — there  came  a  renewal 
of  self-qnestioning.  Had  she  done  everything  in  her 
power  to  lighten  Godfrey's  privation?  Had  she  really 
been  right  in  the  resistance  which  had  cost  her  so  much 
5  pain  six  years  ago,  and  again  four  years  ago — the  resist- 
ance to  her  husband's  wish  that  they  should  adopt  a 
child?  Adoption  was  more  remote  from  the  ideas  and 
habits  of  that  time  than  of  our  own ;  still  iSrancy  had  her 
opinion  on  it.     It  was  as  necessary  to  her  mind  to  have 

10  an  opinion  on  all  topics,  not  exclusively  masculine,  that 
had  come  under  her  notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  pre- 
cisely marked  place  for  every  article  of  her  personal 
property:  and  her  opinions  were  always  principles  to  be 
unwaveringly  acted  on.     They  were  firm,  not  because 

15  of  their  basis,  but  because  she  held  them  with  a  tenac- 
ity inseparable  from  her  mental  action.  On  all  the 
duties  and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  behavior  to  the 
arrangements  of  the  evening  toilette,  pretty  Nancy 
Lammeter,  by  the  time  she  was  three-and-twenty,  had 

20  her  unalterable  little  code,  and  had  formed  every  one 
of  her  habits  in  strict  accordance  with  that  code.  She 
carried  these  decided  judgments  within  her  in  the  most 
unobtrusive  way:  they  rooted  themselves  in  her  mind, 
and  grew-  there   as  quietly  as  grass.     Years   ago,'  we 

25  know,  she  insisted  on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  because 
"  it  was  right  for  sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  because 
'^  she  would  do  what  w^as  right  if  she  wore  a  gown  dyed 
with  cheese  coloring."  That  was  a  trivial  but  typical 
instance  of  the  mode  in  which  ISTancy's  life  was  regu- 

80  lated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty 
egoistic  feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  fancy's 
difficult  resistance  to  her  husband's  wish.     To  adopt  a 


SILAS  MARNER  2b9 

child,  because  children  of  your  own  had  been  denied 
you,  was  to  try  and  choose  your  lot  in  spite  of  Provi- 
dence: the  adopted  child,  she  was  convinced,  would 
never  turn  out  well,  and  would  be  a  curse  to  those  who 
had  willfully  and  rebelliously  sought  what  it  was  clear  5 
that,  for  some  high  reason,  they  were  better  without. 
When  you  saw  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be,  said  Nancy, 
is  was  a  bounden  duty  to  leave  off  so  much  as  wishing 
for  it.  And  so  far,  perhaps,  the  wisest  of  men  could 
scarcely  make  more  than  a  verbal  improvement  in  her  lo 
principle.  But  the  conditions  under  which  she  held  it 
apparent  that  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be  depended 
on  a  more  peculiar  mode  of  thinking.  She  would  have 
given  up  making  a  purchase  at  a  particular  place  if, 
on  three  successive  times,  rain,  or  some  other  cause  15 
of  Heaven's  sending,  had  formed  an  obstacle;  and  she 
would  have  anticipated  a  broken  limb  or  other  heavy 
misfortune  to  any  one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such 
indications. 

"  But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would  turn  2G 
out  ill  ? ''  said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.  "  She 
has  thriven  as  well  as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver; 
and  he  adopted  her.  There  isn't  such  a  pretty  little 
girr  anywhere  else  in  the  parish,  or  one  fitter  for  the 
station  we  could  give  her.  Where  can  be  the  likeli-  25 
hood  of  her  being  a  curse  to  anybody?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,"  said  ISTancy,  who  was  sit- 
ting with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  and  with 
yearning,  regretful  affection  in  her  eyes.  "  The  child 
may  not  turn  out  ill  with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he  30 
didn't  go  to  seek  her,  as  we  should  be  doing.  It  wi41 
be  wrong;  I  feel  sure  it  will.  Don't  you  remember 
what  that  lady  we  met  at  the  Eoyston  Baths  told  us 


to 


240  SILAS  MARNER 

about  the  child  her  sister  adopted?  That  was  the  only 
adopting  I  ever  heard  of:  and  the  child  was  transported 
w^hen  it  was  twenty-three.  Dear  Godfrey,  don^t  ask 
me  to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong:  I  should  never  be 

5  happy  again.     I  know  it's  very  hard  for  you — it's  easier 
for  me — but  it's  the  will  of  Providence." 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy — with  her  re- 
ligious theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  tra- 
ditions, fragments  of  church  doctrine  imperfectly  un- 

10  derstood,  and  girlish  reasonings  on  her  small  experience 
— should  have  arrived  by  herself  at  a  way  of  thinking 
so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  many  devout  people,  whose 
beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape  of  a  system  quite  remote 
from  her  knowledge — singular,  if  we  did  not  know  that 

15  human  beliefs,  like  all  other  natural  growths,  elude  the 
barriers  of  system. 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then 
about  twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them 
to   adopt.     It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that   Silas 

20  would  rather  part  with  his  life  than  with  Eppie. 
Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the  best  to  the  child 
he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and  would  be  glad 
that  such  good  fortune  should  happen  to  her;  she  would 
always  be  very  grateful  to  him,  and  he  would  be  well 

25  provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life — provided  for  as 
the  excellent  part  he  had  done  by  the  child  deserved. 
Was  it  not  an  appropriate  thing  for  people  in  a  higher 
station  to  take  a  charge  off  the  hands  of  a  man  in  a 
lower?     It  seemed  an  eminently  appropriate  thing  to 

30  Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were  known  only  to  himself; 
and  by  a  common  fallacy,  he  imagined  the  measure 
would  be  easy  because  he  had  private  motives  for  de- 
siring it.     This  was  rather  a  coarse  mode  of  estimat- 


SILAS  MARNER  241 

ing  Silas's  relation  to  Eppie;  but  we  must  remember 
that  many  of  the  impressions  which  Godfrey  was  likely 
to  gather  concerning  the  laboring  people  around  him 
would  favor  the  idea  that  deep  affections  can  hardly 
go  along  with  callous  palms  and  scant  means;  and  he  6 
had  not  had  the  opportunity,  even  if  he  had  had  the 
power,  of  entering  intimately  into  all  that  was  excep- 
tional in  the  weaver's  experience.  It  was  only  the  want 
of  adequate  knowledge  that  could  have  made  it  possi- 
ble for  Godfrey  deliberately  to  entertain  an  unfeeling  lo 
project:  his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blight- 
ing time  of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise  of  him 
as  a  husband  was  not  founded  entirely  on  a  willful 
illusion. 

^^  I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  re-  15 
called  all  their  scenes  of  discussion — "  I  feel  I  was 
right  to  say  him  nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more  than 
anything;  but  how  good  Godfrey  has  been  about  it! 
Many  men  would  have  been  very  angry  with  me  for 
standing  out  against  their  wishes;  and  they  might  have  20 
thrown  out  that  they'd  had  ill-luck  in  marrying  me; 
but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the  man  to  say  me  an  un- 
kind word.     It's  only  what  he  can't  hide:  everything 
seems  so  blank  to  him,  I  know;  and  the  land — ^what 
a  difference  it  'ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes  to  see  25 
after  things,  if  he'd  children  growing  up  that  he  was 
doing  it  all  for.     But  I  won't  murmur;  and  perhaps 
if  he'd  married  a  woman  who'd  have  had  children,  she'd 
have  vexed  him  in  other  ways." 

The  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort;  and  to  30 
give  it  greater  strength,  she  labored  to  make  it  impos- 
sible that  any  other  wife  should  have  had  more  perfect 
tenderness.     She  had  been  forced  to  vex  him  by  that 


242  SILAS  MARKER 

one  denial.  Godfrey  was  not  insensible  to  her  loving 
effort^  and  did  Nancy  no  injustice  as  to  the  motives 
of  her  obstinacy.  It  was  impossible  to  have  lived  with 
her  fifteen  years  and  not  be  aware  that  an  unselfisli 
5  clinging  to  the  right  and  a  sincerity  clear  as  the  flower- 
born  dew  were  her  main  characteristics;  indeed,  God- 
frey felt  this  so  strongly,  that  his  own  more  wavering 
nature,  too  averse  to  facing  difllculty  to  be  unvaryingly 
simple  and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a  certain  awe  of  thi» 

10  gentle  wife  who  watched  his  looks  with  a  yearning  to 
obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  he  should 
ever  confess  to  her  the  truth  about  Eppie:  she  would 
never  recover  from  the  repulsion  the  story  of  his  ear- 
lier marriage  would  create,  told  to  her  now,  after  that 

15  long  concealment.  And  the  child,  too,  he  thought, 
must  become  an  object  of  repulsion:  the  very  sight  of 
her  would  be  painful.  The  shock  to  Nancy's  mingled 
pride  and  ignorance  of  the  world's  evil  might  even  be 
too  much  for  her  delicate  frame.     Since  he  had  mar- 

20  ried  her  with  that  secret  on  his  heart  he  must  keep  it 
there  to  the  last.  Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not 
make  an  irreparable  breach  between  himself  and  this 
long-loved  wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to 

25  the  absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened  by 
such  a  wife?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that 
void,  as  if  it  were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was  not 
thoroughly  joyous  to  him?  I  suppose  it  is  the  way 
with  all  men  and  women  who  reach  middle  age  with- 

30  out  the  clear  perception  that  life  never  can  be  thor- 
oughly joyous:  under  the  vague  dullness  of  the  gray 
hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds 
it  in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good.     Dissatisfaction^ 


SILAS  MARNER  243 

seated  musingly  on  a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with  envy 
of  the  father  whose  return  is  greeted  by  young  voices — 
seated  at  the  meal  where  the  little  heads  rise  one  above 
another  like  nursery  plants,  it  sees  a  black  care  hover- 
ing behind  every  one  of  them,  and  thinks  the  impulses  5 
by  which  men  abandon  freedom,  and  seek  for  ties,  are 
surely  nothing  but  a  brief  madness.  In  Godfrey's  case 
there  were  further  reasons  why  his  thoughts  should  be 
continually  solicited  by  this  one  point  in  his  lot:  his 
conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy  about  Eppie,  now  i<^ 
gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect  of  a  retribution;  and 
as  the  time  passed  on,  under  Nancy's  refusal  to  adopt 
her,  any  retrieval  of  his  error  became  more  and  more 
difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years  15 
^ince  there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  be- 
tween them,  and  Xancy  supposed  that  it  was  forever 
buried. 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets 
older,"  she  thought;  "  I'm  afraid  more.  Aged  people  20 
feel  the  miss  of  children:  what  would  father  do  without 
Priscilla?  And  if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very  lonely — 
not  holding  together  with  his  brothers  much.  But  I 
won't  be  overanxious,  and  trying  to  make  things  out 
beforehand:  I  must  do  my  best  for  the  present."  2l 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from 
her  reverie,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  toward  the  for- 
saken page.  It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she 
imagined,  for  she  was  presently  surprised  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  servant  with  the  tea  things.  It  was,  30 
in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for  tea;  but  Jan^ 
had  her  reasons. 

"  Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane  ?  " 


244  SILAS  MARKER 

"  !^i^o'm,  he  isn't/^  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  emphasis, 
of  which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"I  don^t  know  whether  jou\e  seen  ^em,  ^m,^'  con- 
tinued Jane,  after  a  pause,  ^^  but  there's  folks  making 
5  haste  all  one  way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt 
something's  happened.  There's  niver  a  man  to  be  seen 
i'  the  yard,  else  I'd  send  and  see.  I've  been  up  into 
the  top  attic,  but  there's  no  seeing  anything  for  trees. 
I  hope  nobody's  hurt,  that's  all." 

10  ^^  Oh,  no,  I  dare  say  there's  nothing  much  the  mat- 
ter," said  Nancy.  "  It's  perhaps  Mr.  Snell's  bull  got 
out  again,  as  he  did  before." 

"I  wish  he  mayn't  gore  anybody,  then,  that's  all," 
said  Jane,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis  which 

15  covered  a  few  imaginary  calamities. 

"  That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought  Nancy; 
"  I  wish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as 
she  could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which 

20  she  felt  to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no  such 
signs  of  excitement  as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  God- 
frey would  not  be  likely  to  return  by  the  village  road, 
but  by  the  fields.  She  continued  to  stand,  however, 
looking  at  the  placid  churchyard  with  the  long  shad- 

25  ows  of  the  gravestones  across  the  bright  green  hillocks, 
and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colors  of  the  Eectory  trees 
beyond.  Before  such  calm  external  beauty  the  pres- 
ence of  a  vague  fear  is  more  distinctly  felt — like  a  raven 
flapping  its  slow  wing  across  the  sunny  air.     Nancy 

30  wished  more  and  more  that  Godfrey  would  come  in. 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

Some  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  N'ancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She 
turned  from  the  window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes,  for 
the  wife's  chief  dread  was  stilled. 

"  Dear,  I^m  so   thankful  you^re   come/^   she   said,  5 
going  toward  him.     "  I  began  to  get " 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down 
his  hat  with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  toward  her 
with  a  pale  face  and  a  strange  unanswering  glance,  as 
if  he  saw  her  indeed,  but  saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene  lo 
invisible  to  herself.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
not  daring  to  speak  again;  but  he  left  the  touch  un- 
noticed, and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hissing  urn. 
*^  Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you?^^  said  Godfrey;  and  15 
when  the  door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  himself  to 
speak  more  distinctly. 

"^  Sit  down,  Nancy — there,^^  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
chair  opposite  him.     "  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could, 
to  hinder  anybody's  telling  you  but  me.     I've  had  a  so 
great  shock — but  I  care  most  about  the  shock  it'll  be 
to  you.^^ 

"■'^It  isn't  father  and  Priscilla?'^  said  Nancy,  with 
quivering  lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on 
her  lap.  25 

245 


246  SILAS  MARNER 

^^  No,  it's  nobody  living/'  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to 
the  considerate  skill  with  which  he  would  have  wished 
to  make  his  revelation.  "  It's  Dunstan — my  brother 
Dunstan,  that  we  lost  sight  of  sixteen  years  ago.     We've 

5  found  him — found  his  body — his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey's  look  had  created  in  Nancy 
made  her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat  in  com- 
parative calmness  to  hear  what  else  he  had  to  tell.  He 
went  on: 

10  "  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly — from  the 
draining,  I  suppose;  and  there  he  lies — has  lain  for  six- 
teen years,  wedged  between  two  great  stones.  There's 
his  watch  and  seals,  and  there's  my  gold-handled  hunt- 
ing whip,  with  my  name  on:  he  took  it  away,  without 

15  my  knowing,  the  day  he  went  hunting  on  Wildfire,  the 
last  time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused:  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what 
came  next.  "  Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself  ?  "  said 
Nancy,  almost  wondering  that  her  husband  should  be 

20  so  deeply  shaken  by  what  had  happened  all  those  years 
ago  to  an  unloved  brother,  of  whom  worse  things  had 
been  augured. 

"  No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  dis- 
tinct voice,  as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact. 

25  Presently  he  added:  "  Dunstan  was  the  man  that  robbed 
Silas  Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  neck  at  this 
surprise  and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  regard 
even  a  distant  kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonor. 

so  "0  Godfrey!  "  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her 
tone,  for  she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  dis- 
honor must  be  felt  still  more  keenly  by  her  hus- 
band. 


SILAS  MARNER  247 

"  There  was  the  money  in  the  pit/^  he  continued — 
'^  all  the  weaver's  money.  Everything's  been  gathered 
up,  and  they're  taking  the  skeleton  to  the  Eainbow. 
But  I  came  back  to  tell  you:  there  was  no  hindering 
it;  you  must  know."  5 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two  long 
minutes.  Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  com- 
fort under  this  disgrace,  but  she  refrained,  from  an  in- 
stinctive sense  that  there  was  something  behind — that 
Godfrey  had  something  else  to  tell  her.  Presently  he  lo 
lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  kept  them  fixed  on  her, 
as  he  said: 

"  Everything  comes  to  light,  N'ancy,  sooner  or  later. 
When  God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found  out. 
I've  lived  with  a  great  secret  on  my  mind,  but  I'll  keep  k 
it  from  you  no  longer.  I  wouldn't  have  you  know  it 
by  somebody  else,  and  not  by  me — I  wouldn't  have  you 
find  it  out  after  I'm  dead.  I'll  tell  you  now.  It's  been 
'  I  will '  and  '  I  won't '  with  me  all  my  life — I'll  make 
sure  of  myself  now."  20 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of 
the  husband  and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a 
crisis  which  suspended  afl^ection. 

"  jLSTancy,"  said  Godfrey  slowly,  ''  when  I  married 
you,  I  hid  something  from  you — something  I  ought  to  25 
have  told  you.     That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in 
the    snow — Eppie's   mother — that    wretched   woman- 
was  my  wife:  Eppie  is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession. 
But  Nancy  sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped  30 
and  ceased  to  meet  his.     She  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a 
meditative  statue,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap. 

"  You'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said 


248  SILAS  MARNER 

Godfrey,  after  a  little  while,  with  some  tremor  in  hia 
voice. 

She  was  silent. 

^^I   oughtn't  to   have  left  the   child   unowned:    I 
6  oughtn't  to  have  kept  it  from  you.     But  I  couldn't  bear 
to  give  you  up,  Nancy.     I  was  led  away  into  marrying 
her — I  suffered  for  it." 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down;  and  he  al- 
most expected  that  she  would  presently  get  up  and  say 
10  she  would  go,  to  her  father's.     How  could  she  have  any 
mercy  for  faults  that  must  seem  so  black  to  her,  with 
her  simple,  severe  notions? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and 
spoke.     There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice — only 
15  deep  regret. 

"  Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years 

ago,  we  could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the  child. 

Do  you  think  I'd  have  refused  to  take  her  in,  if  I'd 

known  she  was  yours?" 

20        At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of 

an  error  that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated 

its  own   end.     He  had  not  measured  this   wife  with 

whom  he  had  lived  so   long.     But  she   spoke   again, 

with  more  agitation: 

25        '^  And — 0  Godfrey — if  we'd  had  her  from  the  first, 

if  you'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she'd  have  loved 

me  for  her  mother — and  you'd  have  been  happier  with 

me:  I  could  better  have  bore  my  little  baby  dying,  and 

our  life  might  have  been  more  like  what  we  used  to 

80  think  it  'ud  be." 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  then,  Nancy, 
if  I'd  told  yoUj"  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness 


SILAS  MARNER  249 

of  his  self-reproach,  to  prove  to  himself  that  his  con- 
duct had  not  been  utter  folly.  "  You  may  think  you 
would  now,  but  you  wouldn't  then.  With  your  pride 
and  your  father's,  you'd  have  hated  having  anything 
to  do  with  me  after  the  talk  there'd  have  been."  5 

"  I  can't  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that, 
Godfrey.  I  should  never  have  married  anybody  else. 
But  I  wasn't  worth  doing  wrong  for — nothing  is  in 
this  world.  Nothing  is  so  good  as  it  seems  beforehand 
— not  even  our  marrying  wasn't,  you  see."  There  was  lo 
a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy's  face  as  she  said  the  last 
words. 

"  I'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy," 
said  Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "  Can  you  forgive 
me  ever?"  15 

"  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey ;  you've 
made  it  up  to  me — you've  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen 
years.  It's  another  you  did  the  wrong  to;  and  I  doubt 
it  can  never  be  all  made  up  for." 

"  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey.     "  I  20 
won't  mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.     I'll  be  plain 
and  open  for  the  rest  0'  my  life." 

"  It'll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she's  grown 
up/'  said  Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.     '^  But  it's 
your  duty  to  acknowledge  her  and  provide  for  her;  and  35 
I'll  do  my  part  by  her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty  to 
make  her  love  me." 

"  Then  we'll  go  together  to  Silas  Marner's  this  very 
night,  as  soon  as  everything's  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits." 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

Between  eight  and  nine  o^clock  that  evening  Eppie 
and  Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After  the 
great  excitement  the  weaver  had  undergone  from  the 
events  of  the  afternoon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for  this 

5  quietude,  and  had  even  begged  Mrs.  Winthrop  and 
Aaron,  who  had  naturally  lingered  behind  every  one 
else,  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  child.  The  excite- 
ment had  not  passed  away:  it  had  only  reached  that 
stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  susceptibility  makes 

W  external  stimulus  intolerable — when  there  is  no  sense 
of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity  of  inward  life, 
under  which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any  one  who 
has  watched  such  moments  in  other  men  remembers  the 
brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange  definiteness  that 

15  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that  transient  influ- 
ence. It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of  ear  for  all  spiritual 
voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibrations  through  the 
heavy  mortal  frame — as  if  "beauty  born  of  murmur- 
ing sound  '^  had  passed  into  the  face  of  the  listener. 

jjo  Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as 
he  sat  in  his  armchair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had 
drawn  her  own  chair  toward  his  knees,  and  leaned  for- 
ward, holding  both  his  hands,  while  she  looked  up  at 
him.     On  the  table  near  them,  lit  by  a  candle,  lay  the 

J85  recovered  gold — the  old  long-loved  gold,  ranged  in  or- 
250 


SILAS  MARNER  281 

derly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  the  days  when 
it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had  been  telling  her  how  he 
used  to  count  it  every  night,  and  how  his  soul  was 
utterly  desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

"  At  first,  rd  a  sort  o'  feeling  come  across  me  now  5 
and  then/^  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  as  if 
you  might  be  changed  into  the  gold  again;  for  some- 
times, turn  my  head  which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to 
see  the  gold;  and  I  thought  I  should  be  glad  if  I  could 
feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back.     But  that  didn't  lO 
last  long.     After  a  bit,  I  should  have  thought  it  was 
a  curse  come  again  if  it  had  drove  you  from  me,  for 
I'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your  looks  and  your  voice  and 
the  touch  o'  your  little  fingers.     You  didn't  know  then, 
Eppie,  when  you  were  such  a  little  un — you  didn't  know  15 
what  your  old  father  Silas  felt  for  you." 

"  But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  ''  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the 
workhouse,  and  there'd  have  been  nobody  to  love 
me."  20 

"  Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine.  If 
you  hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone  to 
the  grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away 
from  me  in  time;  and  you  see  it's  been  kept — kept  till 
it  was  wanted  for  you.  It's  wonderful — our  life  is  25 
wonderful." 

Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the 
money.  "  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said,  pon- 
deringly — "  the  money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever 
could  again — I  doubt  it  might  if  I  lost  you,  Eppie.  I  30 
might  come  to  think  I  was  forsaken  again,  and  lose  the 
feeling  that  God  was  good  to  me." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door. 


252  SILAS  MARNER 

and  Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answering  Silas. 
Beautiful  she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  of  gathering 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheeks,  as 
she   stepped  to   open   the   door.     The  flush   deepened 

5  when  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass.  She  made 
her  little  rustic  courtesy,  and  held  the  door  wide  for 
them  to  enter. 

"  We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,''   said 
Mrs.  Cass,  taking  Eppie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her  face 

10  with  an  expression  of  anxious  interest  and  admiration. 
[N'ancy  herself  was  pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass, 
went  to  fitand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"  Well,  Marner,''  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with 

15  perfect  firmness,  "  it's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see 
you  with  your  money  again,  that  you've  been  deprived 
of  so  many  years.  It  was  one  of  my  family  did  you 
the  wrong — the  m.ore  grief  to  me — and  I  feel  bound  to 
make  up  to  you  for  it  in  every  way.     Whatever  I  can 

20  do  for  you  will  be  nothing  but  paying  a  debt,  even  if 
I  looked  no  further  than  the  robbery.  But  there  are 
other  things  I'm  beholden — shall  be  beholden  to  you 
for,  Marner." 

Godfrey  checked  himself.     It  had  been  agreed  be^ 

85  tween  him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  father- 
hood should  be  approached  very  carefully,  and  that,  if 
possible,  the  disclosure  should  be  reserved  for  the  fu- 
ture, so  that  it  might  be  made  to  Eppie  gradually, 
ISTancy  had  urged  this,  because  she  felt  sti^ongly  the 

50  painful  light  in  which  Eppie  must  inevitably  see  the 
relation  between  her  father  and  mother. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being  spoken 
to  by  "  betters,"  such  as  Mr.  Cass — tall,  powerful,  florid 


SILAS  MARNER  253 

men,  seen  chiefly  on  horseback — answered  with  some 
constraint: 

"  Sir,  IVe  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a'ready.  As  for 
the  robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did, 
you  couldn't  help  it:  you  aren^t  answerable  for  iV        5 

"  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I 
never  can;  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  act  according  to 
my  own  feeling  of  what's  just.  I  know  you're  easily 
contented:  you've  been  a  hard-working  man  all  your 
life."  10 

"Yes,  sir,  yes,"  said  Marner  meditatively.  "I 
should  ha'  been  bad  off  without  my  work:  it  was  what 
I  held  by  when  everything  else  was  gone  from  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner's  words  sim- 
ply to  his  bodily  wants,  "  it  was  a  good  trade  for  you  15 
in  this  country,  because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of 
linen  weaving  to  be  done.  But  you're  getting  rather 
past  such  close  work,  Marner:  it's  time  you  laid  by  and 
had  some  rest.  You  look  a  good  deal  pulled  down, 
though  you're  not  an  old  man,*  are  you  ?  "  20 

"  Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"  Oh,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer — look 
at  old  Macey!  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after 
all,  is  but  little.  It  won't  go  far  either  way — whether 
it's  put  out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as  25 
long  as  it  would  last:  it  wouldn't  go  far  if  you'd  no- 
body to  keep  but  yourself,  and  you've  had  two  to  keep 
for  a  good  many  years  now." 

"  Eh,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  God- 
frey was  saying,  "  I'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.     We  shall  do  30 
very  well — Eppie  and  me  'ull  do  well  enough.     There's 
few  working  folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that. 
T  don't  know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon 


254  SILAS  MARNER 

it  as  a  deal — almost  too  much.     And  as  for  us,  it's  little 
we  want/' 

"  Only  the  garden,  father/'  said  Eppie,  blushing  up 
to  the  ears  the  moment  after. 
5  "  You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear?  "  said  N'ancy, 
thinking  that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help 
her  husband.  "  We  should  agree  in  that:  I  give  a 
deal  of  time  to  the  garden." 

"  Ah,    there's    plenty    of    gardening    at    the    Eed 

10  House,"  said  Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he 
found  in  approaching  a  proposition  which  had  seemed 
so  easy  to  him  in  the  distance.  "  You've  done  a  good 
part  by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  sixteen  years.  It  'ud  be 
a  great  comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well  provided  for, 

15  wouldn't  it?  She  looks  blooming  and  healthy,  but 
not  fit  for  any  hardships:  she  doesn't  look  like  a  strap' 
ping  girl  come  of  working  parents.  You'd  like  to  see 
her  taken  care  of  by  those  who  can  leave  her  well  off, 
and  make  a  lady  of  her;  she's  more  fit  for  it  than  for 

20  a  rough  life,  such  as  she  might  come  to  have  in  a  few 
years'  time." 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Marner's  face,  and  disap- 
peared, like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  won- 
dering Mr.  Cass  should  talk  so  about  things  that  seemed 

25  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  reality;  but  Silas  was  hurt 
and  uneasy. 

"  I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered,  not 
having  words  at  command'  to  express  the  mingled  feel- 
ings with  which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's  words. 

30  "  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey, 
determined  to  come  to  the  point.  ^'  Mrs.  Cass  and  I, 
you  know,  have  no  children — nobody  to  be  the  better 
for  our  good  home  and  everything  else  we  have — more 


SILAS  MARKER  255 

than  enough  for  ourselves.  And  we  should  like  to 
have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a  daughter  to  us — ^we 
should  like  to  have  Eppie,  and  treat  her  in  every  way  as 
our  own  child.  It  'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  in  your 
old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made  in  that  way,  5 
after  you've  been  at  the  trouble  of  bringing  her  up  so 
well.  And  it's  right  you  should  have  every  reward  for 
that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  always  love  you  and 
be  grateful  to  you:  she'd  come  and  see  you  very  often, 
and  we  should  all  be  on  the  lookout  to  do  everything  lo 
we  could  toward  making  you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under 
some  embarrassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words  that 
are  coarser  than  his  intentions,  and  that  are  likely  to 
fall  gratingly  on  susceptible  feelings.  While  he  had  15 
been  speaking,  Eppie  had  quietly  passed  her  arm  be- 
hind Silas's  head,  and  let  her  hand  rest  against  it  caress- 
ingly: she  felt  him  trembling  violently.  He  was  silent 
for  some  moments  when  Mr.  Cass  had  ended — power- 
less under  the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike  painful.  20 
Eppie's  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense  that  her  father 
was  in  distress;  and  she  was  just  going  to  lean  down 
and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread  at  last 
gained  the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas^  and  he 
said  faintly:  25 

"  Eppie,  my  child,  speak.     I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.     Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and 
came  forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but 
not  with  shyness  this  time:  the  sense  that  her  father  30 
was  in  doubt  and  suffering  banished  that  sort  of  self- 
consciousness.  She  dropped  a  low  courtesy,  first  to 
Mrs.  Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass,  and  said: 


256  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Thank  you^  ma'am — thank  you,  sir.     But  I  can't 

leave  my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than  him. 

And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady — thank  you  all  the  same  " 

(here  Eppie  dropped  another  courtesy).     "I  couldn't 

5  give  up  the  folks  I've  been  used  to." 

Eppie's  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last 
words.  She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again,  and 
held  him  round  the  neck;  while  Silas,  with  a  subdued 
sob,  put  up  his  hand  to  grasp  hers. 

10  The  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  but  her  sympathy 
with  Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on  her 
husband's  account.  She  dared  not  speak,  wondering 
what  was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritatron  inevitable  to  almost  all 

15  of  us  when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He 
had  been  full  of  his  own  penitence  and  resolution  to 
retrieve  his  error  as  far  as  the  time  was  left  to  him; 
he  was  possessed  with  all-important  feelings,  that  were 
to  lead  to  a  predetermined  course  of  action  which  he 

20  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to 
enter  with  lively  appreciation  into  other  people's  feel- 
ings counteracting  his  virtuous  resolves.  The  agita- 
tion with  which  he  spoke  again  was  not  quite  unmixed 
with  anger. 

25  "  But  I've  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie — the  strongest  of 
all  claims.  It's  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie  as  my 
child,  and  provide  for  her.  She's  my  own  child:  her 
mother  was  my  wife.  I've  a  natural  claim  on  her  that 
must  stand  before  every  other." 

30  Eppie  had  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite 
pale.  Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved, 
by  Eppie's  answer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind  should 
be  in  opposition  to  hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in 


SILAS  MARNER  357 

him  set  free,  not  without  a  touch  of  parental  fierceness. 
^'  Then,  sir/^  he  answered,  with  an  accent  of  bitterness 
that  had  been  silent  in  him  since  the  memorable  day 
when  his  youthful  hope  had  perished — "  then,  sir,  why 
didnH  you  say  so  sixteen  years  ago,  and  claim  her  be-  5 
fore  I^d  come  to  love  her,  instead  0'  coming  to  take 
her  from  me  now,  when  you  might  as  well  take  the 
heart  out  o^  my  body?  God  gave  her  to  me  because 
you  turned  your  back  upon  her,  and  He  looks  upon  her 
as  mine :  you've  no  right  to  her !  When  a  man  turns  a  10 
blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to  them  as  take  it  in/' 

"  I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've  re- 
pented of  my  conduct  in  that  matter,"  said  Godfrey, 
who  could  not  help  feeling  the  edge  of  Silas's  words. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Marijer,  with  gather-  15- 
ing  excitement;  "but  repentance  doesn't  alter  what's 
been  going  on  for  sixteen  year.  Your  coming  now  and 
saying  '  I'm  her  father,'  doesn't  alter  the  feelings  in- 
side us.  It's  me  she's  been  calling  her  father  ever 
since  she  could  say  the  word."  20 

"  But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more 
reasonably,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed 
by  the  weaver's  direct  truth-speaking.  "  It  isn't  as  if 
she  was  to  be  taken  quite  away  from  you,  so  that  you'd 
never  see  her  again.  She'll  be  very  near  you,  and  come  25 
to  see  you  very  often.  She'll  feel  just  the  same  toward 
you." 

"  Just  the  same  ?  "  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than 
ever.  "How'll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she 
does  now,  when  we  eat  0'  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o^  se 
the  same  cup,  and  think  o'  the  same  things  from  one 
day's  end  to  another?  Just  the  same?  That's  idle 
talk.     You'd  cut  us  i'  two  " 


258  SILAS  MARNER 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the 
pregnancy  of  Marner's  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry 
again.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very 
selfish  (a  judgment  readily  passed  by  those  who  have 
5  never  tested  their  own  power  of  sacrifice)  to  oppose 
what  was  undoubtedly  for  Eppie's  welfare;  and  he 
felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake,  to  assert  his 
authority. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Marner,^^  he  said  severely 

10  — "  I  should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie 
would  make  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her  good,  even 
if  it  did  call  upon  you  to  give  up  something.  You 
ought  to  remember  your  own  life's  uncertain,  and  she's 
at  an  age  now  when  her  lot  may  soon  be  fixed  in  a 

15  way  very  different  from  what  it  would  be  in  her  father's 
home :  she  may  marry  some  low  working  man,  and  then, 
whatever  I  might  do  for  her,  I  couldn't  make  her  well 
off.  You're  putting  yourself  in  the  way  of  her  welfare; 
and  though  I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you  after  what  you've 

20  done,  and  what  I've  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it's  my 
duty  to  insist  on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I 
want  to  do  my  duty." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas 
or  Eppie  that  was  most   deeply  stirred  by   this   last 

25  speech  of  Godfrey's.  Thought  had  been  very  busy  in 
Eppie  as  she  listened  to  the  contest  between  her  old 
long-loved  father  and  this  new  unfamiliar  father  who 
had  suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of  that  black  fea- 
tureless shadow  which  had  held  the  ring  and  placed  it 

30  on  her  mother's  finger.  Her  imagination  had  darted 
backward  in  conjectures,  and  forward  in  previsions,  of 
what  this  revealed  fatherhood  implied;  and  there  were 
words  in  Godfrey's  last  speech  which  helped  to  make 


SILAS  MARNER  259 

the  previsions  especially  definite.  Not  that  these 
thoughts,  either  of  past  or  future,  determined  her  reso- 
lution— that  was  determined  by  the  feelings  which  vi- 
brated to  every  word  Silas  had  uttered;  but  they  raised, 
even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion  toward  the  5 
offered  lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  con- 
science, and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation  should 
be  true — lest  he  should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an 
obstacle  to  Eppie's  good.  For  many  moments  he  was  lo 
mute,  struggling  for  the  self-conquest  necessary  to  the 
uttering  of  the  difficult  words.  They  came  out  tremu- 
lously. 

"  ril  say  no  more.     Let  it  be  as  you  will.     Speak 
to  the  child.     FU  hinder  nothing.'^  15 

Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her 
own  affections,  shared  her  husband's  view,  that  Mar- 
ner  was  not  justifiable  in  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie, 
after  her  real  father  had  avowed  himself.  She  felt 
that  it  was  a  very  hard  trial  for  the  poor  weaver,  but  20 
her  code  allowed  no  question  that  a  father  by  blood 
must  have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster-father.  Be- 
sides, Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous  circum- 
stances and  the  privileges  of  ^^respectability,''  could 
not  enter  into  the  pleasures  which  early  nurture  and  25, 
habit  connect  with  all  the  little  aims  and  efforts  of  the 
poor  who  are  born  poor:  to  her  mind,  Eppie,  in  being 
restored  to  her  birthright,  was  entering  on  a  too  long 
withheld  but  unquestionable  good.  Hence  she  heard 
Silas's  last  words  with  relief,  and  thought,  as  Godfrey  30 
did,  that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

"Eppie,  my  dear,"   said   Godfrey,  looking  at  his 
daughter,  not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the 


260  SILAS  MARNER 

sense  that  she  was  old  enough  to  judge  him,  "  it'll  al- 
ways be  onr  wish  that  you  should  show  your  love  and 
gratitude  to  one  who's  been  a  father  to  you  so  many 
years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you  to  make  him  com- 
5  fortable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope  you'll  come  to 
love  us  as  well;  and  though  I  haven't  been  what  a 
father  should  ha'  been  to  you  all  these  years,  I  wish 
to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  and  provide  for  you  as  my  only  child.     And 

10  you'll  have  the  best  of  mothers  in  my  wife — that'll  be 
a  blessing  you  haven't  known  since  you  were  old  enough 
to  know  it." 

"  My  dear,  you'll  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  Nancy, 
in  her  gentle  voice.     "  We  shall  want  for  nothing  when 

15  we  have  our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  courtesy,  as  she 
had  done  before.  She  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and 
grasped  it  firmly — it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a  palm 
and  finger-tips  that  were  sensitive  to  such  pressure — 

80  while  she  spoke  with  colder  decision  than  before. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir,  for  your  offers 
— ^they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For  I 
should  have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was  forced 
to  go  away  from  my  father,  and  knew  he  was  sitting 

25  at  home,  a-thinking  of  me,  and  feeling  lone.  We've 
been  used  to  be  happy  together  every  day,  and  I  can't 
think  o'  no  happiness  without  him.  And  he  says  he'd 
nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent  to  him,  and  he'd 
have  nothing  when  I  was  gene.     And  he's  took  care 

^  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I'll  cleave  to 
him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall  ever  come 
between  him  and  me." 

"  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a 


SILAS  MARKER  261 

low  voice — ^^you  must  make  sure  as  you  won^t  ever 
be  sorry,  because  you\e  made  your  choice  to  stay 
among  poor  folks,  and  with  poor  clothes  and  things, 
when  you  might  ha'  had  everything  o'  the  best." 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as  he  5 
listened  to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  affection. 

"I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with 
fine  things  about  me,  as  I  haven't  been  used  to.  And 
it  'ud  be  poor  work  for  me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride  lo 
in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  place  at  church,  as  'ud  make  them 
as  I'm  fond  of  think  me  unfitting  company  for  'em. 
What  could  I  care  for  then?  " 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained,  question- 
ing glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor,  where  15 
he  was  moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he  were  pon- 
dering on  something  absently.  She  thought  there  was 
a  word  which  might  perhaps  come  better  from  her  lips 
than  from  his. 

"  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child — it's  natu-  go 
ral  you  should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you  up," 
she  said  mildly;  "but  there's  a  duty  you  owe  to  your 
lawful  father.  There's  perhaps  something  to  be  given 
up  on  more  sides  than  one.  When  your  father  opens 
his  home  to  you,  I  think  it's  right  you  shouldn't  turn  25 
your  back  on  it." 

"  I  can't  feel  as  I've  got  any  father  but  one,"  said 
Eppie  impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "I've 
always  thought  of  a  little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the 
corner,  and  I  should  fend  and  do  everything  for  him:  80 
I  can't  think  0'  no  other  home.  I  wasn't  brought  up 
to  be  a  lady,  and  I  can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I  like 
the  working  folks,  and  their  victuals,  and  their  ways. 


262  SILAS  MARNER 

And/^  she  ended  passionately/  while  the  tears  fell, 
"Fm  promised  to  marry  a  working-man,  as'll  live  with 
father,  and  help  me  to  take  care  of  him/^ 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  i^ancy  with  a  flushed  face 

5  and  smarting,  dilated  eyes.  This  frustration  of  a  pur- 
pose toward  which  he  had  set  out  under  the  exalted 
consciousness  that  he  was  about  to  compensate  in  some 
degree  for  the  greatest  demerit  of  his  life,  made  him 
feel  the  air  of  the  room  stifling. 

10        "  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

"We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,"  said 
Nancy,  rising.  "  We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — 
and  yours  too,  Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you 
again.     It's  getting  late  now." 

15  In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt  de- 
parture, for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door, 
unable  to  say  more. 


CHAPTER  XX 

!N'ancy  and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  the  star- 
light in  silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  parlor, 
Godfrey  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  while  Nancy  laid 
down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stood  on  the  hearth 
near  her  husband,  unwilling  to  leave  him  even  for  a  5 
few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter  any  word  lest  it 
might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last  Godfrey  turned  his 
head  toward  her,  and  their  eyes  met,  dwelling  in  that 
meeting  without  any  movement  on  either  side.  That 
quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a  trusting  husband  and  wife  is  lo 
like  the  first  moment  of  rest  or  refuge  from  a  great 
weariness  or  a  great  danger — not  to  be  interfered  with 
by  speech  or  action  which  would  distract  the  sensations 
from  the  fresh  enjoyment  of  repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy  15 
placed  hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  toward  him,  and 
said: 

"That's  ended!'' 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood 
by  his  side,  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  20 
hope  of  having  her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't  be 
right  to  want  to  force  her  to  come  to  us  against  her 
will.  We  can't  alter  her  bringing  up  and  what's 
come  of  it." 

"No,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of  25 

263 


264  SILAS  MARNER 

tone,  in  contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  unem- 
phatic  speech;  "  there's  debts  we  can't  pay  like  money 
debts,  by  paying  extra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped 
hy.  While  I've  been  putting  off  and  putting  off,  the 
5  trees  have  been  growing — it's  too  late  now.  Marner 
was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said  about  a  man's  turning 
away  a  blessing  from  his  door:  it  falls  to  somebody 
else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless  once,  Nancy — I 
shall  pass  for  childless  now  against  my  wish." 

10  Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  asked,  "You  won't  make  it  known,  then, 
about  Eppie's  being  your  daughter?" 

"  No — where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody? — only 
harm.     I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state  of 

15  life  she  chooses.  I  must  see  who  it  is  she's  thinking 
of  marrying." 

"  If  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing  known," 
said  Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now  allow  herself 
the  relief  of  entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried 

20  to  silence  before,  "  I  should  be  very  thankful  for  father 
and  Priscilla  never  to  be  troubled  with  knowing  what 
was  done  in  the  past,  more  than  about  Dunsey:  it 
can't  be  helped,  their  knowing  that." 

"  I  shall  put  it  in  my  will — I  think  I  shall  put  it 

25  in  my  will.  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  anything  to  be 
found  out,  like  this  about  Dunsey,"  said  Godfrey  medi- 
tatively. "  But  I  can't  see  anything  but  difficulties 
that  'ud  come  from  telling  it  now.  I  must  do  what  I 
can  to  make  her  happy  in  her  own  way.     I've  a  no- 

30  tion,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "it's  Aaron 
Winthrop  she  meant  she  was  engaged  to.  I  remem- 
ber seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner  going  away  from 
church." 


SILAS  MARKER  265 

^^Well,  he's  very  sober  and  industrious/^  said 
Nancy,  trying  to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  pos- 
sible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtfulness  again.  Presently 
he  looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said:  5 

'^'^  She's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  isn't  she,  Nancy? '^ 

"Yes,  dear;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes.  I 
wondered  it  had  never  struck  me  before.'' 

"I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought 
of  my  being  her  father.     I  could  see  a  change  in  her  lo 
manner  after  that." 

"  She  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Mar- 
ner  as  her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to  confirm 
her  husband's  painful  impression. 

"  She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as  15 
by  her.  She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.  But  she 
must  think  it:  she  can  never  know  all.  It's  part  of 
my  punishment,  Nancy,  for  my  daughter  to  dislike 
me.  I  should  never  have  got  into  that  trouble  if  I'd 
been  true  to  you — if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool.  I'd  no  20 
right  to  expect  anything  but  evil  could  come  of 
that  marriage — and  when  I  shirked  doing  a  father's 
part,  too." 

Nancy  was  silent:  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not 
let  her  try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a  25 
just  compunction.     He  spoke  again  after  a  little  while, 
but  the  tone  was  rather  changed:  there  was  tender- 
ness mingled  with  the  previous  self-reproach. 

"And  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all;  and  yet 
I've  been  grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  hadn't  some-  30 
thing  else — as  if  I  deserved  it." 

"  You've  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,"  said 
Nancy,  with  quiet  sincerity.     "  My  only  trouble  would 


266  SILAS  MARNER 

be  gone  if  you  resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that^s  been 
given  us." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there. 
Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things,  say  what 
5  they  will/^ 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The   next  morning,   when   Silas   and   Eppie   were 
seated  at  their  breakfast,  he  said  to  her: 

"  Eppie,  there's  a  thing  I've  had  on  my  mind  to  do 
this  two  year,  and  now  the  money's  been  brought  back 
to  ns,  we  can  do  it.  I've  been  turning  it  over  and  5 
over  in  the  night,  and  I  think  we'll  set  out  to-morrow, 
while  the  fine  days  last.  We'll  leave  the  house  and 
everything  for  your  godmother  to  take  care  on,  and 
we'll  make  a  little  bundle  o'  things  and  set  out." 

^^ Where  to  go,  daddy?"  said  Eppie,  in  much  sur-  10 
prise. 

"  To  my  old  country — to  the  town  where  I  was 
born — up  Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paston, 
the  minister:  something  may  ha'  come  out  to  make  'em 
know  I  was  innicent  o'  the  robbery.  And  Mr.  Paston  15 
was  a  man  with  a  deal  o'  light — I  want  to  speak  to 
him  about  the  drawing  0'  the  lots.  And  I  should  like 
to  talk  to  him  about  the  religion  0'  this  country-side, 
for  I  partly  think  he  doesn't  know  on  it." 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect  20 
not  only  of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange 
country,  but  also  of  coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all 
about  it.  Aaron  was  so  much  wiser  than  she  was  about 
most  things — it  would  be  rather  pleasant  to  have  this 
little   advantage   over  him.      Mrs.   Winthrop,   though  25 

267 


268  SILAS  MARNER 

possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers  attendant  on  so 
long  a  journey,  and  requiring  many  assurances  that  it 
would  not  take  them  out  of  the  region  of  carriers^  carts 
and  slow  wagons,  was  nevertheless  well  pleased  that 
5  Silas  should  revisit  his  own  countiy,  and  find  out  if  he 
had  been  cleared  from  that  false  accusation. 

"  You^d  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  o'  yoar 
life,  Master  Marner/^  said  Dolly — "  that  you  would. 
And  if  there's  any  light  to  be  got  up  the  Yard  as  you 

10  talk  on,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world,  and  I'd  be  glad 
on  it  myself,  if  you  could  bring  it  back." 

So,  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and 
Eppie,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle 
tied  in  a  blue  linen  handkerchief,  were  making  their 

15  way  through  the  streets  of  a  great  manufacturing  town. 
Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes  thirty  years  had 
brought  over  his  native  place,  had  stopped  several  per- 
sons in  succession  to  ask  them  the  name  of  this  town, 
that  he  might  be  sure  he  was  not  under  a  mistake 

20  about  it. 

"  Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father — ask  this  gentle- 
man with  the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the 
shop  door;  he  isn't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest,"  said  Eppie, 
in  some  distress  at  her  father's  bewilderment,  and  ill 

25  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the  noise,  the  movement,  and 
the  multitude  of  strange  indiiferent  faces. 

"Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  anything  about  it," 
said  Silas;  "  gentlefolks  didn't  ever  go  up  the  Yard. 
But  happen  somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way  to 

30  Prison  Street,  where  the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way  out 
o'  that  as  if  I'd  seen  it  yesterday." 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new 
inquiries,  they  reached  Prison   Street;  and  the  grim 


SILAS  MARNEfl  269 

w^alls  of  the  jail,  the  first  object  that  answered  to  any 
image  in  Silas's  memory,  cheered  him  with  the  certi- 
tude, which  no  assurance  of  the  town's  name  had  hith- 
erto given  him,  that  he  was  in  his  native  place. 

"  Ah/'  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  there's  the  5 
jail,  Eppie;  that's  just  the  same:  I  aren't  afraid  now. 
It's  the  third  turning  on  the  left  hand  from  the  jail 
doors — that's  the  way  we  must  go." 

"  Oh,  what  a  dark  ugly  place!  "  said  Eppie.     "  How 
it  hides  the  sky!     It's  worse  than. the  workhouse.     I'm  lo 
glad  you  don't  live  in  this  town  now,  father.     Is  Lan- 
tern Yard  like  this  street  ?  " 

''  My  precious  child,"  said  Silas,  smiling,  "  it  isn't 
a  big  street  like  this.     I  never  was  easy  i'  this  street 
myself,  but  I  was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yard.     The  shops  15 
here  are  all  altered,  I  think — I  can't  make  'em  out;  but 
1  shall  know  the  turning,  because  it's  the  third." 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as 
they  came  to  a  narrow  alley.  "  And  then  we  must  go 
to  the  left  again,  and  then  straight  for'ard  for  a  bit,  20 
up  Shoe  Lane;  and  then  we  shall  be  at  the  entry 
next  to  the  o'erhanging  wdndow,  where  there's  the 
nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  Eh,  I  can  see 
it  all." 

^^  0  father,  I'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,"  said  Eppie.  25 
^'  I  couldn't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived  i'  this  way, 
so  close  together.     How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  'ull  look 
when  we  get  back! " 

"  It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now — and  smells 
bad.     I  can't  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so."  3(1 

Here  and  there  a  sallow,  begrimed  face  looked  out 
from  a  gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and  increased 
Bppie's  uneasiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief 


270  SILAS  MARNER 

when  they  issued  from  the  alleys  into  Shoe  Lane,  where 
there  was  a  broader  strip  of  sky. 

"Dear   heart!  ^^   said   Silas;    "why,   there's   people 
coming  out  o'  the  Yard  as  if  they'd  been  to  chapel  at 
6  this  time  o'  day — a  weekday  noon! " 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of 

distressed  amazement,  that  alarmed  Eppie.     They  were 

before  an  opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  from 

which  men  and  women  were  streaming  for  their  mid- 

10  day  meal. 

"Father,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  "what's 
the  matter?  " 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas 
could  answer  her. 
15  "  It's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agita- 
tion— "  Lantern  Yard's  gone.  It  must  ha'  been  here, 
because  here's  the  house  with  the  o'erhanging  window 
— I  know  that — it's  just  the  same;  but  they've  made 
this  new  opening;  and  see  that  big  factory!  It's  all 
20  gone — chapel  and  all." 

"  Come  into  that  little  brush  shop  and  sit  down, 

father — they'll  let  you  sit  down,"  said  Eppie,  always 

on  the  watch  lest  one  of  her  father's  strange  attacks 

should  come  on.     "  Perhaps  the  people  can  tell  you  all 

25  about  it." 

But  neither  from  the  brushmaker,  who  had  come 

to  Shoe  Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was 

already  built,  nor  from  any  other  source  within  his 

reach,  could  Silas  learn  anything  of  the  old  Lantern 

30  Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister. 

"  The  old  place  is  all  swep'  away,"  Silas  said  to 
Dolly  Winthrop  on  the  night  of  his  return — "  the  little 
^'-pveyard  and  everything.     The  old  home's  gone;  I've 


SILAS  MARNER  271 

no  home  but  this  now.  I  shall  never  know  whether 
they  got  at  the  truth  o'  the  robbery,  nor  whether  Mr. 
Paston  could  ha^  given  me  any  light  about  the  draw- 
ing 0^  the  lots.  It's  dark  to  me,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  that 
is;  I  doubt  it'll  be  dark  to  the  last.''  5 

"Well,  yes,  Master  Marner/'  said  Dolly,  who  sat 
with  a  placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  gray 
hairs;  "  I  doubt  it  may.  It's  the  will  o'  Them  above 
as  a  many  things  should  be  dark  to  us;  but  there's 
some  things  as  I've  never  felt  i'  the  dark  about,  and  lo 
they're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the  day's  work.  You  were 
hard  done  by  that  once,  Master  Marner,  and  it  seems 
as  you'll  never  know  the  rights  of  it;  but  that  doesn't 
hinder  there  heing  a  rights.  Master  Marner,  for  all  it's 
dark  to  you  and  me."  15 

"  No,"  said  Silas,  "  l!^o;  that  doesn't  hinder.  Since 
the  time  the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I've  come  to 
love  her  as  myself,  I've  had  light  enough  to  trusten  by; 
and,  now  she  says  she'll  never  leave  me,  I  think  I  shall 
trusten  till  I  die."  ao 


CONCLUSION 

There  was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in 
Eaveloe  to  he  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It 
was  when  the  great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old- 
fashioned    gardens    showed    their   golden    and    purple 

5  wealth  above  the  lichen-tinted  walls,  and  when  there 
were  calves  still  young  enough  to  want  bucketfuls  of 
fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy  then  as  they 
must  become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and  the 
mowing  had  set  in;  and,  besides,  it  was  a  time  when  a 

10  light  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  comfort  and  seen 
to  advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual 
on  the  lilac  tufts  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married, 
for  her  dress  was  a  very  light  one.     She  had  often 

15  thought,  though  with  a  feeling  of  renunciation,  that 
the  perfection  of  a  wedding  dress  would  be  a  white 
cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig  at  wide  intervals; 
so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  begged  to  provide  one, 
and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it  should  be,  previous 

20  meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a  decided  answer 
at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the 
churchyard  and  down  t?ie  village,  she  seemed  to  be 
attired  in  pure  white,  and  her  hair  looked  like  the  dash 

85  of  gold  on  a  lily.     One  hand  was  on  her  husband^s 
^  272 


SILAS  MARNEK  273 

arm,  and  with  the  other  she  clasped  the  hand  of  her 
father  Silas. 

"You  won't  be  giving  me  away,  father/'  she  had 
said  before  they  went  to  church;  "  you'll  only  be  tak- 
ing Aaron  to  be  a  son  to  you."  5 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  husband; 
and  there  ended  the  little  bridal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss  Pris- 
cilla  Lammeter  was  glad  that  she  and  her  father  had 
happened  to  drive  up  to  the  door  of  the  Eed  House  10 
just  in  time  to  see  this  pretty  sight.  They,  had  come 
to  keep  N^ancy  company  to-day,  because  Mr.  Cass  had 
had  to  go  away  to  Lytherly,  for  special  reasons.  That 
seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for  otherwise  he  might  have,  gone, 
as  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Osgood  certainly  would,  15 
to  look  on  at  the  wedding  feast  which  he  had  ordered 
at  the  Eainbow,  naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in 
the  weaver  who  had  been  wronged  by  one  of  his  own 
family. 

"I  could  ha'  wished  N"ancy  had  had  the  luck  to  20 
find  a  child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Priscilla 
to  her  father,  as  they  sat  in  the  gig;  "  I  should  ha'  had 
something  young  to  think  of  then,  besides  the  lambs 
and  the  calves." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"   said  Mr.   Lammeter;  "one  25 
feels  that  as  one  gets  older.     Things  look  dim  to  old 
folks:  they'd  need  have  some  young  eyes  about  'em,  to 
let  'em  know  the  world's  the  same  as  it  used  to  be." 

^N'ancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and 
sister;  and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond  30 
the  Eed  House  to  the  humbler  part  of  the  village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old  Mr. 
Macey,  who  had  been  set  in  his  armchair  outside  his 


274  SILAS  MARNER 

own  door^  would  expect  some  special  notice  as  they 

passed,  since  he  was  too  old  to  be  at  the  wedding-feast. 

"  Mr.  Macey^s  looking  for  a  word  from  us/^  said 

Dolly;  "  he^ll  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say  nothing 

5  — and  him  so  racked  with  rheumatiz.^^ 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old 
man.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and  had 
his  premeditated  speech. 

"  Well,  Master  Marner/^  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 

10  quavered  a  good  deal,  "  IVe  lived  to  see  my  words 
come  true.-  I  was  the  first  to  say  there  was  no  harm 
in  you,  though  your  looks  might  be  again'  you;  and  I 
was  the  first  to  say  you'd  get  your  money  back.  And 
it's  nothing  but  rightful  as  you  should.     And  I'd  ha' 

15  said  the  '  Amens,'  and  willing,  at  the  holy  matrimony; 
but  Tookey's  done  it  a  good  while  now,  and  I  hope 
you'll  have  none  the  worse  luck." 

In  the  open  yard  before  the  Eainbow  the  party  of 
guests  were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still  nearly 

20  an  hour  before  the  appointed  feast-time.  But  by  this 
means  they  could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  advent  of 
their  pleasure;  they  had  also  ample  leisure  to  talk  of 
Silas  Marner's  strange  history,  and  arrive  by  due  de- 
grees at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  brought  a  blessing 

25  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father  to  a  lone,  motherless 
child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  negative  this  senti- 
ment: on  the  contrary,  he  took  it  up  as  peculiarly  his 
own,  and  invited  any  hardy  person  present  to  contra- 
dict him.     But  he  met  with  no  contradiction;  and  all 

30  differences  among  the  company  were  merged  in  a  gen- 
eral agreement  with  Mr.  Snell's  sentiment,  that  when 
a  man  had  deserved  his  good  luck,  it  was  the  part  of 
his  neighbors  to  wish  him  joy. 


SILAS  MARKER  275 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer  was 
raised  in  the  Kainbow  yard;  and  Ben  Wintbrop,  whose 
jokes  had  retained  their  acceptable  flavor,  found  it 
agreeable  to  turn  in  there  and  receive  congratulations; 
not  requiring  the  proposed  interval  of  quiet  at  the  6 
Stone-pits  before  joining  the  company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garden  than  she  had  ever  ex- 
pected there  now;  and  in  other  ways  there  had  been 
alterations  at  the  expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the  landlord, 
to  suit  Silas's  larger  family.  For  he  and  Eppie  had  lo 
declared  that  they  would  rather  stay  at  the  Stone-pits 
than  go  to  any  new  home.  The  garden  was  fenced 
with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in  front  there  was  an 
open  fence,  through  which  the  flowers  shone  with  an- 
swering gladness,  as  the  four  united  people  came  within  U 
sight  of  them. 

"  0  father,^'  said  Eppie,  "  what  a  pretty  home  ours 
is!     I  think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we  are.'^ 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS 


A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  ofler  to  declining  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts. 

Wordsworth. 

Note. — The  general  method  that  seems  to  the  editors  desirable 
for  the  handling  of  fiction  in  class  is  dwelt  upon  at  some  length 
in  the  Introduction.  The  only  suggestions  ventured  upon  as  to 
the  special  handling  of  Silas  Marner  are  found  in  the  following 
comments  and  questions.  There  is,  of  course,  no  thought  that 
these  in  any  way  take  the  place  of  the  teacher.  Practical  teachers 
know  that  questions  prepared  in  the  study,  even  with  special  ac- 
quaintance with  the  pupils  they  are  meant  for,  must  often  be 
modified  beyond  recognition  in  the  presence  of  the  class  and  the 
difficulties  actually  encountered.  The  helps  here  given  will  have 
served  their  purpose  if  they  bring  pupils  to  the  class  room  in 
questioning  mood.  In  that  case  the  recitation  becomes  a  natural 
conversation,  in  which  teacher  and  pupils  interchange  judgments, 
questions,  feelings.  It  will  be  observed  that  acquaintance  with 
the  whole  story  is  assumed  from  the  start.  This  acquaintance 
may  be  very  superficial,  and  made  in  a  hurried  private  reading, 
but  it  is  an  essential  preliminary  to  serious  study  of  a  novel  as  a 
work  of  art. 


PAET  I 
CHAPTER  I 


Study  this  chapter  as  an  introduction  to  the  story.  What  facts 
does  it  give  us  that  are  indispensable  to  our  understanding  of  what 
follows  ?    What  two  periods  of  Silas  Marner's  life  are  here  brought 

277 


278  SILAS  MARNER 

side  by  side  ?  The  effect  of  this  ?  Is  there  any  artistic  reason  for 
first  picturing  Silas  as  he  was  at  Raveloe?  Why  is  the  Lantern- 
Yard  period  sketched  so  briefly?  Why  sketched  at  all?  The 
reason  for  giving  in  detail  only  the  last  scenes  of  it  f  What  feel- 
ing for  Silas  is  roused  by  this  chapter  ?  Does  the  chapter  leave  us 
looking  forward  with  any  curiosity  ?    Why  f 

P.  25, 1.  In  the  days  when  spinning  wheels.  How  does  the  autl  or 
date  her  story  1  How  is  this  method  better  for  her  purpose  than 
to  date  exactly  or  approximately  by  year  ?  Though  Silas  is  not 
introduced  in  this  first  paragraph,  what  setting  or  background  is 
prepared  for  him  1 

P.  26,  3-4.  To  the  peasants.  Have  we  a  peasant  class  in  this 
country?  Is  it  safe  to  interpret  village  and  country  life  in  Silas 
Marner  altogether  by  our  American  hamlet  and  country  life? 
Have  you  read  Miss  Mitford's  Our  Village  ?  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Cran- 
ford?  Miss  Edge  worth's  Absentee?  Her  Castle  Rackrent?  Philip 
Gilbert  Hamerton's  Round  my  House?  Tolstoi's  short  stories? 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  Deephaven?  Country  By- Ways?  Stories  of 
New  England  ?  Country  of  the  Pointed  Firs  ?  Hamlin  Garland's 
Main-Traveled  Roads?  Six  Mississippi  Valley  Stories?  Prairie 
Folks?  Octave  Thanet's  Heart  of  Toil?  Missionary  Sheriff? 
Stories  of  a  Western  Town  ?  Do  you  feel  any  essential  difference 
between  the  European  life  and  the  American  ? 

P.  26,  28.  In  the  early  years  .  .  .  such.  How  does  this  link  the 
second  paragraph  to  the  first?  Full  force  of  the  word  such  here? 
How  much  does  it  tell  us  of  Silas  ? 

\P.  27,  2-3.  The  Raveloe  boys.  Through  whose  eyes  do  we  see 
Silas  first  ?  From  the  boys'  feeling  and  behavior  what  can  we  infer 
as  to  the  general  feeling  about  Silas  ?  Are  the  diction  and  what  we 
may  call  the  tone  of  voice  throughout  this  passage  George  Eliot's 
own  ?  or  are  there  lines  where  we  hear  the  villagers  even  when  she 
is  not  quoting  ?  Compare  the  sentence  "  They  had,  perhaps,"  etc., 
with  the  following.     Are  the  same  voices  speaking? 

P.  28, 15.  And  Raveloe.  What  is  here  carried  over  from  the  last 
paragraph  into  the  description  of  Raveloe  ?  Is  it  merely  a  phys- 
ical setting  for  the  story  that  this  paragraph  gives  ? 

P.  29,  5.  those  war  times.  How  many  ways  of  dating  this  story 
thus  far?    Does  any  one  way  give  merely  the  time? 

P.  29,  6.  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and  Easter  tide.  Why  are  these 
instanced  ?    An  American  author  would  be  apt  to  instance  whaf^ 


COMMENTS   AND  QUESTIONS  279 

days  or  seasons  ?  Has  this  difference  any  significance  and  sug- 
gestiveness  ? 

P.  29,  8.  It  was  fifteen  years.  Note  how  much  of  Silas's  life  in 
Ravelo3  is  summed  up  in  this  paragraph ;  how  many  of  the  vil- 
lagers are  introduced;  and  the  significance  of  the  incidents  re- 
tailed and  referred  to  by  Jem  Rodney  and  Mr.  Macey.  Why, 
especially,  should  such  prominence  be  given  so  early  to  Silas's 
peculiar  malady  and  the  popular  superstitions  concerning  it! 
Where  in  Silas's  life  does  this  malady  become  of  critical  impor- 
tance ?  And  again  note  the  change  of  voice  when  the  writer  has 
to  recount  the  villagers'  ideas,  even  though  she  does  not  quote 
their  words  directly. 

P.  31,  25.  But  while  opinion  concerning  him.  How  is  transition 
made  here  from  the  Raveloe  life  to  Lantern  Yard?  Why  should 
Silas's  religious  life  be  made  so  prominent  in  this  paragraph  and 
the  next?  and  why  dwell  again  on  his  malady?  Are  these  mat- 
ters introduced  for  their  own  sake  or  for  the  sake  of  something  to 
come  ?    Chief  traits  of  Silas's  character  ? 

P.  33,  11-12.  the  friend  was  William  Dane.  What  is  there  in 
this  paragraph  to  make  us  distrust  Dane,  and  to  like  Silas  and 
be  sorry  for  him  ?  What  additional  traits  in  Silas's  character  are 
here  brought  out  ?  Are  they  to  play  any  decisive  part  later  in  his 
life  ?  What  feeling  can  we  detect  in  George  Eliot's  voic^  in  the 
last  sentence  of  this  paragraph  ? 

P.  34,  6.  It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas.  Again  a  skill- 
ful transition.  The  words  seemed  and  unsuspecting  suggest  what 
as  to  the  actual  fact?  What  does  Silas's  engagement  have  to  do 
with  the  catastrophe  that  comes  upon  him  in  Lantern  Yard! 
Notice  how  the  story  of  the  relations  of  these  three— William, 
Silas,  and  Sarah— is  given  by  suggestion  and  implication,  and  yet 
how  perfectly  we  are  put  in  possession  of  the  facts.  The  artistic 
reason  for  the  fullness  of  the  treatment  of  the  story  from  the  dis- 
covery of  the  deacon's  death  ? 

P.  39,  6-7.  no  man  is  culpable.  In  Silas's  case,  was  any  man 
culpable?  Were  the  church  people?  Was  Dane?  Was  Silas 
himself?  Do  we  ever  suffer  for  our  ignorance?  For  our  virtues, 
even  ?  Show  the  parts  played  in  this  instance  by  malice  and  afiec- 
tion  and  trustfulness  and  ignorance. 


280  SILAS  MARNER 


CHAPTER  II 

How  did  the  Silas  Marner  of  Lantern  Yard  become  the  Silas 
Marner  of  Raveloe  fifteen  years  later  ?  Given  a  kindly,  affection- 
ate, trustful,  honest,  simple-hearted,  self-doubting,  and  ignorant 
man,  stricken  and  bewildered  as  Marner  was  by  the  unfounded  con- 
demnation of  the  men  and  women  he  has  most  trusted,  betrayed 
by  the  man  and  abandoned  by  the  woman  he  has  loved  best,  and, 
as  he  believes,  even  by  the  God  he  has  trusted  and  worshiped — what 
are  the  steps  by  which  he  becomes  a  recluse  and  miser  ?  This  sec- 
ond chapter  is  George  Eliot's  answer.  In  studying  it,  notice  how 
every  characteristic  given  to  the  original  Marner  plays  its  part  in 
his  transformation.  Notice,  further,  the  part  played  by  the  new 
environment  and  by  the  ignorance  and  superstition  of  the  villagers. 
And,  finally,  notice  how  much  habit  has  to  do  with  the  change  in 
Marner. 

P.  40,  6.  transported  to  a  new  land.  In  this  paragraph  and  the 
Tiext  observe  how  the  change  in  environment  and  the  break  with 
his  old  life  affect  Silas. 

P.  41,  17.  as  the  little  child  knows  nothing.  Notice  how  many 
of  the  paragraphs  in  this  chapter  are  peculiarly  touching  at  the 
close.     How  is  this  appeal  to  the  feelings  made  ? 

P.  41,  20.  And  what  could  be  more  unlike.  Study  the  first  sen- 
tences of  paragraphs  as  links  between  what  precedes  and  what 
follows. 

P.  42,  5.  the  feeling  of  primitive  men.  Have  you  perhaps  read 
Tylor's  Primitive  Culture?  or  John  Fiske's  Myths  and  Myth 
Makers  ?  or  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  ? 

P.  42,  16.  His  first  movement.  In  this  paragraph  and  the  next, 
observe  in  how  many  ways  habitual  actions  and  feelings  of  Silas 
now  work  toward  his  transformation. 

P.  43,  3  and  17.  there  was  nothing  that  called  out  his  love' and 
he  loved  no  man.  If  we  put  ourselves  in  his  place  and  ask,  "  What 
then?"  what  will  the  answer  be? 

P.  44,  6.  About  this  time.  What  traits  of  Silas  come  in  play  in 
this  Sally  Gates  incident  ?  How  is  it  that  his  kindliness  and  his  hon- 
esty work  him  ill  ?  What  is  there  in  his  environment  to  prevent  these 
traits  from  working  good  in  this  instance  ?     Is  any  one  to  blame  I 

P.  44,  25.  a  matter  of  general  discourse.  In  what  follows,  whose 
diction  and  whose  tones  of  voice  do  we  hear? 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  281 

P.  46,  9.  Gradually  the  guineas.  In  this  paragraph,  again,  we 
are  to  trace  the  influence  of  habit.  Can  we  trace  here  also  any- 
thing that  comes  from  the  loneliness  of  an  affectionate  nature  ? 

P.  46,  32.  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sensations.  What 
saves  Silas  from  imbecility  ?  Is  his  love  of  gold  wholly  unfortu- 
nate? 

P.  48,  16.  Yet  even  in  this  stage.  Why  should  the  author  em- 
phasize, as  in  this  paragraph,  the  persistent  affectionateness  of 
Marner  ? 

P.  49,  4.  This  is  the  history.  Study  this  paragraph  as  a  sum- 
mary. Try  to  discover  how  the  author  compresses  so  much  in  so 
few  lines ;  and  also  how  she  contrives  to  let  us  not  simply  know, 
but  feel  Marner's  life. 

P.  50,  12.  But  about  the  Christmas.  W^hat  have  the  first  two 
chapters  served  to  do  i  What  does  this  last  paragraph  make  us 
look  forward  to  ? 

CHAPTER  III 

This  chapter  introduces  the  subordinate  plot,  or  underplot. 
What  makes  us  feel  from  the  first  that  the  Cass  story  is  subordi- 
nate, and  is  to  contribute  to  the  story  of  Marner  ?  Note  the  vari- 
ous ways  by  which  this  chapter  singles  out  Godfrey  as  the  central 
personage  of  this  second  plot.  Observe  how,  in  presenting  these 
new  characters,  the  author  shows  them  in  their  relations  not  only 
to  one  another,  but  to  the  community ;  and  how  she  makes  us  feel 
that  the  social  conditions  surrounding  them,  and  the  ideas  that 
are  taken  for  granted  in  the  community  they  were  born  in,  have 
had  much  to  do  in  shaping  their  lives.  Are  we  likely  to  be  better 
than  our  world  expects  us  to  be  and  holds  us  responsible  for  being! 
Note  how  soon  the  author  comes  to  the  point  in  letting  us  into 
Godfrey's  secret,  making  use  first  of  village  gossip  to  arouse  our 
curiosity  as  well,  perhaps,  as  some  concern  for  Godfrey,  and  then 
of  Dunsey's  taunts,  before  she  herself  tells  the  story  in  briefest 
possible  outline.  What  is  the  situation  that  puts  Godfrey  into 
Dunstan's  power? 

P.  51,  1.  The  greatest  man  in  Baveloe.  Has  Squire  Cass  been 
mentioned  before  ? 

P.  51,  6.  Mr.  Osgood's  family.  And  where  have  we  heard  of  the 
Osgoods  before  ?  The  effect  of  these  incidental  introductions  and 
gossipy  references  ? 


282  SILAS  MARNER 

P.  51,  10.  whereas  Squire  Cass.  Have  you  read  enough  of  George 
Eliot  to  fee)  at  once,  here  and  repeatedly  in  her  references  to  social 
conditicnb  ana  iaeals,  her  characteristic  blending  of  sympathy, 
large  tolerance,  and  gentle  irony  ?    What  calls  it  out  'i 

P.  51,  11.  complained  of  the  game.  Have  you  read  enough  Eng- 
lish fiction  and  English  history  to  give  significance  to  this  ? 

P.  53,  4.  and  this  helDed  to  account.  As  in  case  of  Silas,  we  get 
our  first  impressions  j>_  Godfrey  and  Dunstan  and  Nancy  from  the 
villagers.  Is  their  gossip  unkind?  What  is  really  at  bottom  of 
such  gossip?  Are  our  later  impressions  of  the  Ca.sses  and  the 
Lammeters  materially  different  from  this  first  one  i  How  is  it  in 
case  of  Silas  ?    Why  ? 

P.  54,  21.  in  that  fifteenth  year.  Why  should  this  point  in  God- 
frey's life  get  its  date  from  Silas's  ? 

P.  54,  27.  life  destitute  of  any  hallowing  charm.  Is  our  judgment 
of  the  Squire's  sons  tempered  by  sympathy? 

P.  55,  6-7.  retreated  under  the  chair.  Why  ?  Where  else  in  this 
book  are  animals  introduced  to  throw  light  on  the  characters  of 
persons  ? 

P.  55,  9-10.  my  elders  and  betters.  Dunstan's  chief  reason  for 
hating  Godfrey  is  what  ?  How  has  the  village  gossip  prepared  us 
for  the  part  of  tormentor  Dunstan  plays  throughout  this  scene? 

P.  56,  6.  Molly  Farren.  How  much  of  Molly's  character  that  is 
important  to  the  story  is  given  here  ? 

P.  56,  21.  a  handsome  brother.  Dunstan's  second  reason  for 
hating  Godfrey  ? 

P.  57,  11.  sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming.  Is  Dunsey  fair  to  Godfrey 
here?  How  would  this  speech  serve  on  the  whole  to  describe  God- 
frey's behavior  at  the  New- Year's  ball  (Ch.  XI.)  ? 

P.  57,  14.  Hold  your  tongue.     What  makes  Godfrey  angry  ? 

P.  57, 33.  She's  been  threatening.  The  first  preparation  for  Chap- 
ter XII. 

P.  59,  8-9.  no  future  for  himself.  If  Godfrey  were  the  son  of  a 
rich  American  farmer  and  behaved  as  he  does,  would  he  have  less 
or  more  excuse  ?  Do  social  ideals  have  anything  to  do  with  his 
helplessness  ? 

P.  61,  33.  very  prosaic  figures.  What  is  George  Eliot's  feeling 
toward  them?  The  source  of  it?  How  does  she  make  us  feel! 
This  general  picture  is  preparation  for  what  particular  one? 

P.  62,  27.  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass.    Why  does  the  author  make 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  283 

the  story  of  Godfrey  and  Molly  so  very  brief  f  Is  either  undue 
leniency  or  harshness  of  judgment  to  be  felt  in  this  analysis  of 
Godfrey's  character?  Is  the  author  mainly  bent  on  judging  him, 
or  on  understanding  him  and  revealing  him  ?  Does  she  succeed 
in  making  us  understand  him?  And  what  is  Nancy  Lammeter 
becoming  to  us  ? 

P.  65,  o.  Batherley.  If  we  are  to  appreciate  the  care  with 
which  the  author  arranges  every  detail  to  make  Eppie's  coming  to 
Silas's  cottage  seem  na,tural,  we  must  not  overlook  this.  It  is  the 
first  of  the  hints  by  which  she  gives  us  a  sense  of  familiarity  with 
Molly's  route. 

P.  65,  8-9.  the  yoke  a  man  creates.  George  Eliot  was  working 
on  Romola  when  the  idea  of  Silas  Marner  came  to  her,  and  kept 
thrusting  itself,  as  she  said,  between  her  and  the  book  she  was 
meditating.  Those  who  have  read  Romola  will  find  a  curious  in- 
terest in  the  likeness  between  Tito  Melema  and  Godfrey  Cass, 
Tito  is  a  far  more  brilliant  and  fascinating  character,  and  is  por- 
trayed with  far  greater  elaboration ;  but  in  certain  fundamental 
characteristics  he  is  one  with  Godfrey.  How  are  we  to  account  for 
the  difference  in  their  later  development  and  final  fortunes'?  Did 
their  creator  believe  herself  too  lenient  with  Godfrey,  and  so  bring 
a  sterner  retribution  upon  Tito  ?  Can  both  be  true  to  human  life  I 
Is  one  more  capable  of  loving  than  the  other!  Has  one  more  of 
the  moral  sense  ? 

P.  65,  22.  the  expected  caress.  What  light  does  Snuff's  expecta- 
tion throw  on  Godfrey's  disposition  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

This  chapter  makes  the  first  real  link  between  Godfrey  Cass*s 
story  and  Silas  Marner's.  The  admirable  study  of  Dunstan's  char- 
acter is  necessary  to  make  his  theft  of  the  gold  credible.  And  all 
the  detail  as  to  locality  and  routes  is  necessary  to  create  that  shap- 
ing of  circumstances  which  provides  opportunity  for  the  exercise 
of  Dunstan's  latent  criminal  instincts.  Note  also  that  the  hunt  is 
near  Batherley,  and  that  Dunstan's  route  is  by  the  Gtone-pit, 
both  going  and  coming.    Who  is  to  come  by  the  same  route  later? 

P.  69,  13-14.  absence  of  witnesses.  From  the  time  of  the  sale  of 
Wildfire,  does  any  one  take  note  of  Dunstan?  Does  any  one  see 
him  after  the  accident  ?    Note  the  care  with  which  his  disappear- 


284  SILAS  MARNER 

ance  is  provided  for,  and  also  the  pains  with  which  circumstances 
are  made  to  provide  an  explanation  of  his  disappearance  without 
connecting  it  with  the  robbery. 

P.  70,  18.  a  mist  was  gathering.  Observe  how  the  weather  be- 
comes an  actor  in  what  follows ;  and  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
chapter,  note  how  the  author  multiplies  details  that  ought  to  sug- 
gest to  us  what  happens  to  Dunstan  when  he  leaves  the  cottage,' 
reckless  with  fear,  his  hands  burdened  with  the  bags  and  God- 
frey's whip.  Why  was  the  Stone-pit  showii  us  early  in  the  chapter 
with  the  red  muddy  water  high  up  its  sides?  Why  is  so  much 
made  of  Godfrey's  whip  ? 

CHAPTER  V 

We  had  fifteen  years  of  Silas's  life  summed  up  in  a  single  chap- 
ter, and  now  four  or  five  chapters  are  devoted  to  the  single  inci- 
dent of  the  robbery.  What  justifies  such  apparent  disproportion  f 
What  is  the  real  relation  of  the  robbery  to  Silas's  life  ?  What  is 
it  that  it  does  for  him  ?  How  does  it  change  his  relation  to  the 
neighborhood  ? 

P.  76-77.  Is  the  care  with  which  the  author  works  out  the  situ- 
ation that  gave  opportunity  for  the  robbery  characteristic  ?  And 
the  incidental  introduction  of  Priscilla  Lamraeterf 

P.  81,  8.  Jem  Bodney.  What  does  the  incidental  introduction 
of  Jem  earlier  in  the  story  make  unnecessary  here  1 

P.  81,  21.  he  must  go  and  proclaim  his  loss.  Has  Silas  ever  be- 
fore turned  for  help  to  his  neighbors,  or  made  any  effort  to  inter- 
est them  in  his  life? 

P.  82,  1.  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Baveloe.  How  does  this 
paragraph  prepare  us  for  the  next  chapter  ? 

CHAPTER  VI 

This  chapter  apparently  interrupts  the  course  of  the  story. 
Does  it  really  interrupt  it  ?  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  chapter  Silas 
is  brought  to  the  door  of  the  Rainbow.  We  are  eager  to  enter 
with  him  and  learn  what  is  to  be  done  about  the  robbery.  But 
here  we  are  held  for  many  pages  listening  to  the  trivial  gossip  and 
disputes  and  clumsy  jests  of  village  Dogberrys.  Is  any  "neces- 
sary question  of  the  play  "  served  by  this,  or  is  it  an  inartistic  con- 
cession to  our  desire  tov  amusement,  our  en joyinent  of  the  author's 


COMMENTS  AND   QUESTIONS  285 

humor  ?  We  may  feel  our  way  to  an  answer  if  we  notice  what 
terms  we  are  on  with  the  village  before  we  have  finished  the  chap- 
ter. Could  anything  give  us  a  greater  sense  of  intimacy  and 
familiar  fellowship  with  the  villagers  and  their  life?  We  see 
their  narrowness  and  dullness,  their  relish  for  plain  speaking, 
their  complacent  ignorance,  their  inaptitude  for  entering  into  any 
experience  at  all  remote  from  their  own,  and  yet  their  neighborli 
ness  and  good  will.  Could  we  be  better  prepared  to  understand 
the  futile  excitement  about  the  robbery  ?  and  the  change  of  feel- 
ing toward  Silas  f  and  how  little  real  help  to  the  awakening  of 
Silas's  life  can  come  from  the  village !  For  further  understand- 
ing of  the  author's  artistic  motive  here,  see  her  letter  to  R.  H.  Hut- 
ton  concerning  Romola,  quoted  in  the  Introduction,  page  14. 

P.  83,  1.  The  conversation.  What  makes  this  scene  at  once  so 
diverting  and  yet  half  pathetic,  too  *?  Is  it  amusing  to  the  men 
who  take  part  in  it  %  When  they  laugh,  and  we  too  are  amused,  is 
it  at  the  same  thing?  If  the  chapter  were  read  to  such  a  group, 
would  they  see  the  humor  ?  Is  there  contempt  in  our  smiles  ?  hos- 
tility ?  sympathy  ?  What  do  we  feel  in  George  Eliot  herself  here  ? 
What  experience  had  she  that  could  possibly  help  her  in  creating 
such  a  scene  ?  Dowden  has  an  interesting  analysis  of  George  Eliot's 
humor  with  reference  to  this  chapter.  He  says :  "  George  Eliot's 
humor  allies  itself  with  her  intellect,  on  one  hand,  and  with  her 
sympathies  and  moral  perceptions  on  the  other.  .  .  .  The  humor 
of  George  Eliot  usually  belongs  to  her  entire  conception  of  a  char- 
acter, and  can  not  be  separated  from  it.  Her  humorous  effects  are 
secured  by  letting  her  mind  drop  sympathetically  into  a  level  of 
lower  intelligence  or  duller  moral  perception,  and  by  the  conscious 
presence  at  the  same  time  of  the  higher  self.  The  humorous  im- 
pression exists  only  in  the  qualified  organs  of  perception  which 
remain  at  the  higher,  the  normal  point  of  view.  What  had  been 
merely  an  undulation  of  matter,  when  it  touches  the  prepared  sur- 
face of  the  retina,  breaks  into  light.  By  the  fire  of  the  Rainbow 
Inn,  the  butcher  and  the  farrier,  the  parish  clerk  and  the  deputy 
clerk,  puff  their  pipes  with  an  air  of  severity,  '  staring  at  one  an- 
other as  if  a  bet  were  depending  on  the  first  man  who  winked,' 
while  the  humbler  beer-drinkers  *keep  their  eyelids  down,  and  rub 
their  hands  across  their  mouths,  as  if  the  draughts  of  beer  were  a 
funereal  duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness.'  The  slow 
talk  about  the  red  Durham  is  conducted  with  a  sense  of  grave 


286  SILAS  MARNER 

responsibility  on  both  sides.  It  is  we^  who  are  looking  on  unol> 
served,  who  experience  a  rippling  over  of  our  moral  nature  with 
manifold  laughter ;  it  is  to  our  lips  the  smile  rises — a  smile  which 
is  expressive  not  of  any  acute  access  of  risibility,  but  of  a  volumi- 
nous enjoyment,  a  mass  of  mingled  feeling,  partly  tender,  partly 
pathetic,  partly  humorous."  * 

CHAPTER  VII 

The  connection  with  the  preceding  chapter  is  very  close  Would 
it  have  been  as  well  to  include  this  scene  in  Chapter  VI? 

P.  97,  1.  Yet  the  next  moment.  Note  the  skill  with  which  the 
author  has  prepared  the  scene  for  Silas's  entering. 

P.  99,  38.  This  strangely  novel  situation.  In  what  does  its  nov- 
elty consist?  What  change  toward  Silas  begins  here?  What 
change  in  him  ? 

P.  101,  10.  Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid.  Memory  of  what? 
Why  should  Mr.  Macey's  words  appeal  peculiarly  to  Silas  ?  And 
what  trait  do  they  appeal  to  ? 

CHAPTER  VIII 

This  chapter  carries  on  both  Silas's  story  and  Godfrey's,  but 
xne  former  mainly  through  the  latter.  The  first  part  is,  indeed, 
taken  up  with  the  discussion  of  the  robbery  and  the  thief ;  we  are 
shown  the  village  for  the  first  time  really  preoccupied  in  a  friendly 
way  with  Silas's  affairs.  The  strong  admixture  of  vanity,  self-im- 
portance, and  futility,  with  the  desire  to  help  Silas,  is  amusingly 
human,  and  does  not  take  away  the  significance  of  their  effort. 
But  even  this  neighborliness  is  not  so  important  even  to  Silas  as 
are  the  steps  in  Godfrey's  development.  A  little  later  Godfrey 
denies  his  wife  and  child ;  suffers  his  wife  to  be  buried  as  an  un- 
claimed pauper,  and  his  child  to  be  adopted  by  the  poor  ignorant 
weaver.  Yet  Godfrey  is  not  a  hard-hearted  man.  What  are  the 
steps  by  which  he  unconsciously  prepares  himself  for  this  cruel 
choice?  Some  of  them  he  has  already  taken — what  are  they? 
And  some  of  them  are  narrated  in  this  chapter  and  the  following 
— what  are  they  ? 

*  George  Eliot,  by  Edward  Dowden.  The  Contemporary  Beview,  Au- 
gust, 1872.     LittelVs  Living  Age,  vol.  115. 


COMMENTS  AND   QUESTIONS  287 

P.  107,  28.  which  boded  little  honesty.  Is  there  enough  preju- 
dice among  us  to  help  us  understand  this  illogical  reasoning? 

P.  110,  25-26.  now  that  the  dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past.  Is 
there  much*' human  nature"  in  Godfrey!  What  outside  of  the 
book  helps  us  to  understand  the  way  he  behaves  and  feels  ? 

P.  114,  6.  she  might  come.  Why  is  the  pronoun  enough  here  to 
identify  the  person  meant! 

P.  114,  7.  And  then  he  tried.    Human  nature  again. 

P.  115,  9.  But  when  he  awoke.  Has  any  one  else  ever  had  such 
an  experience  1  Why  is  it  that  we  so  often  fail  to  keep  the  good 
resolution  of  the  night  before?  How  does  our  strength  to  do 
^  disagreeable  thing  when  it  is  at  a  distance  compare  with  our 
strength  to  do  it  when  the  disagreeable  thing  is  immediately  at 
hand  ?  Are  there  other  reasons  why  the  morning  breaks  the  reso- 
lutions of  the  night  ? 

CHAPTER  IX 

The  preceding  chapter  has  led  the  way  to  Godfrey's  interview 
with  his  father  in  this.  Just  what  is  the  situation  that  now  com- 
pels Godfrey  to  make  some  sort  of  explanation  and  confession  to 
his  father?  How  far  is  it  of  Godfrey's  making?  How  far  of 
Dunstan's?  How  far  of  the  Squire's  own?  What  is  Godfrey's 
frame  of  mind  as  he  waits  for  his  father?  How  much  of  the  truth 
does  he  mean  to  tell  ?  Does  he  mean  beforehand  to  lie  outright 
or  simply  to  keep  back  the  truth?  Which  does  he  actually  do? 
Why?  What  coniidence  exists  between  father  and  son  here? 
Which  is  the  more  responsible  for  the  relation  between  them,  the 
father  or  the  son  ?  If  the  Squire  were  a  better  and  a  more  sym- 
pathetic man,  would  Godfrey's  action  be  just  what  it  is?  Do  we 
excuse  Godfrey's  conduct  here?  Can  we  understand  it?  Can  we 
sympathize  with  him  at  all,  and  yet  hold  him  responsible  and  con- 
demn him?  What  is  Godfrey's  determining  weakness?  What 
does  his  failure  to  confess  the  truth  when  an  opportunity  is  given 
him  here,  prepare  him  to  do  when  the  time  comes  for  owning  or 
disowning  wife  and  child  ? 

P.  117,  21.  it  was  a  fiction.  Is  English  human  nature,  then, 
altogether  different  from  American  ? 

P.  120,  1-2.  Yon  never  knew  me  do  a  dishonest  trick,  sir.  Is 
Godfrey  necessarily  hypocritical  here?  Does  he  fully  see  his  own 
conduct  ? 


288  SILAS  MARNER 

P.  120,  31.  The  sudden  alarm.  What  had  prepared  him  for  the 
next  step  ?  And  what  is  his  fundamental  weakness — what  we  may 
call  his  structural  weakness  ?  Why  does  he  not  confess  when  his 
father  gives  him  this  opening  for  confession  ? 

P.  122,  5-6.  Lammeter's  daughter.  Was  Godfrey  prepared  to 
have  this  matter  come  up?  Who  is  responsible  for  the  situation 
as  to  Nancy  that  makes  Godfrey  so  uncomfortable  here  ? 

P.  124,  16.  Favorable  Chance  is  the  god.  How  do  we  know  that 
what  the  author  says  in  this  paragraph  is  true  ? 

CHAPTER  X 

We  are  still  held  to  the  robbery  and  its  effects,  with  just  a 
glimpse  of  Godfrey.  Why  does  no  one  suspect  Dunstan  ?  Is  any- 
thing accomplished  by  all  this  stir  about  the  robbery  and  this  in- 
terest in  Silas?  How  is  our  feeling  toward  anyone  affected  by 
our  making  even  a  slight  effort  to  help  him  ?  In  what  way  is  this 
effect  seen  in  Raveloe  among  the  well-to-do ?  Among  the  poor? 
What  justifies  so  detailed  an  account  of  Mr.  Macey's  visit  and 
Dolly  Winthrop's?  What  is  the  essential  difference  between  Mr. 
Macey's  attitude  toward  Silas  and  Dolly's  ?  Does  he  not  mean  to 
be  as  kind  as  Dolly  does  ?  Can  we  even  here  discover  what  it  is 
that  in  the  end  makes  her  so  helpful  to  Silas  and  Eppie  ?  What 
makes  her  take  Aaron  with  her?  What  is  the  state  into  which 
Silas  has  fallen  as  a  result  of  the  loss  of  his  gold  ?  What  is  the 
danger  now  ?  What  is  the  one  change  in  Silas  that  bears  some 
promise  of  good  ?  Why  can  not  he  understand  Dolly's  talk  about 
the  church  and  the  services  there,  and  the  form  in  which  she  finds 
such  comfort  ?  What  is  the  effect  upon  us  of  the  contrast  drawn 
between  the  Christmas  of  our  other  Raveloe  acquaintances  and 
Silas's?  Does  Godfrey's  state  of  mind  promise  much  good?  Rea- 
son for  answer  ? 

P.  129,  3.  He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  Has  he  lost  the 
power  of  loving  ?     What  if  he  had  ? 

P.  129,  19.  spoken  of  as  a  "  poor  mushed  creatur."  How  is  this  a 
change  for  the  better  ? 

P.  131,  9.  you  might  ha'  made  up  for  it.  Is  Mr.  Macey  alone  in 
this  commercial  view  of  religion  ? 

P.  135,  3.  Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked  youngster.  What  makes  every 
reference  to  Aaron  delightful  ?  How  does  he  compare  with  thfc 
little  Lord  B'auntlerov  type  ? 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  289 

P.  135,  22-23.  consciousness  of  dependence.     Is  this  a  weakness! 

P.  142, 19-20.  The  fountains  of  human  love.  Which  is  more  likely 
to  unlock  them?  What  is  stronger  than  he,  or  what  is  weaker  I 
Why? 

P.  144,  17.  the  great  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve.  What  makes  us 
look  forward  to  New  Year's  Eve  as  critical  for  Godfrey  and  for 
Silas? 

CHAPTER  XI 

The  purpose  of  this  chapter  is  the  portrayal  of  Nancy's  char- 
acter. Is  this  of  critical  interest  for  its  own  sake,  or  because  of 
her  relation  to  Godfrey  and  through  him  to  Silas  ?  We  are  moving 
toward  the  climax  and  turning  point  of  Silas's  life — the  adoption 
of  Eppie.  Why  is  this  equally  the  turning  point  of  Godfrey's  ? 
What  act  of  Godfrey's  makes  Silas's  act  possible?  What  has 
Nancy  to  do  with  Godfrey's  act  ?  Does  she  even  know  of  it,  or  of 
any  occasion  for  it  ?  In  what  way  is  she,  nevertheless,  involved  in 
it  ?  What  do  we  discover  in  Nancy  to  make  Godfrey's  love  of  her 
and  a  certain  awe  of  her  explicable  ?  Just  what  is  their  present 
relation?  Has  Godfrey  any  right  to  behave  as  he  does?  What 
would  an  honorable  man  do  in  Godfrey's  case — if  we  can  imagine 
one  in  it  ?  What  would  Nancy  do  if  she  knew  the  truth  ?  What 
is  the  artistic  reason  for  the  introduction  of  such  characters  as  the 
Miss  Gunns,  Mrs.  Osgood,  and  Priscilla?  We  see  them  all  in  rela- 
tion to  whom  ?  What  do  we  learn  of  the  latter  through  compari- 
son and  contrast  ?  What  traits  in  Nancy  are  brought  out  by  the 
question  of  the  sisters'  dressing  alike  ?  How  do  these  traits  be- 
come of  importance  years  later  in  the  matter  of  adopting  Eppie  ? 
How  far  can  we  set  down  Godfrey's  acts  throughout  this  chapter 
to  the  good  in  him,  and  how  far  to  the  bad?  How  do  the  exter- 
nal circumstances  of  the  party  influence  him — the  facts,  for  in- 
stance, that  he  is  host ;  that  his  father,  his  uncle,  and  the  rector 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  will  single  out  Nancy  ?  In  what  direc- 
tion is  he  moving  as  the  evening  advances  ?  How  does  this  affect 
his  decision  when  the  critical  instant  comes  ? 

CHAPTER  XII 

Up  to  this  point  there  has  been  no  hint  that  Godfrey  has  a 
child  as  well  as  a  wife.  If  we  had  known  of  the  child  would  our 
feeling  and  judgment  have  been  just  the  samel     What  effect 


290  SILAS  MARNER 

upon  our  pity  for  Godfrey  and  our  condemnation  of  him  is  pro- 
duced by  this  unexpected  revelation  ?  What  in  the  time  and  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  is  made  intensifies  the  effect  of  the 
revelation  f  What  feeling  have  we  had  hitherto  for  Molly  f  Is 
this  in  any  way  modified  by  our  present  view  of  her  ?  Does  the 
purpose  she  serves  in  the  story  require  that  we  dwell  long  upon 
her  life  and  her  sufferings  from  her  own  point  of  view?  What  is 
the  purpose  she  serves  ?  And  how  do  her  character  and  station 
further  that  purpose  f  How  has  the  author  prepared  us  for  Molly's 
coming  to  Raveloe  ?  For  her  passing  by  Silas's  cottage  ?  For  her 
death?  Artistic  purpose  of  such  preparation?  Have  we  been 
prepared  also  for  the  situation  at  the  cottage  when  Eppie  follows 
the  gleam  of  light  ?  Why  does  not  Silas  at  once  think  that  some 
one  must  have  been  with  the  child?  What  memories  does  she 
rouse  ?  What  feelings  does  she  stir  ?  What  is  the  effect  upon  Silas 
of  her  helplessness  and  trust  and  clinging?  What  feelings  does 
Eppie  call  out  in  us  ?  Why  ?  What  is  the  secret  of  the  charm  in 
George  Eliot's  pictures  of  babyhood  and  childhood  ? 

P.  173, 10-11.  how  should  those  white- winged  delicate  messengers. 
It  is  often  said  that  women  are  hard  on  women  who  offend  the 
moral  law.  Is  the  author  hard  on  Molly?  In  what  spirit  does 
she  treat  her  ? 

CHAPTER  XIII 

We  come  now  to  the  climax  of  Silas's  story.  The  adoption  of 
Eppie  is  the  turning  point.  Some  hard  questions  inevitably  come 
up  here  from  the  connection  between  Silas  and  Godfrey.  The 
weaknesses  and  sins  of  Molly  and  Godfrey  bring  Eppie  to  Silas, 
and  open  the  door  to  a  new  life  for  him.  Does  the  author  mean, 
then,  that  those  sins  and  weaknesses  were  a  good  ?  Is  she  dealing 
with  a  fictitious  and  ideal  world,  or  with  the  actual  world?  Is  it 
easy  here  to  disentangle  the  lines  of  good  and  evrl  ?  Are  the  evil 
a^ts  the  cause  of  good  ?  Do  they  create  a  situation  out  of  which 
good  naturally  or  necessarily  follows?  Is  Silas  merely  a  passive 
recipient  of  good  ?  Or  is  it  a  good  in  Silas  that  here  becomes  ac- 
tive, and  out  of  the  evil  situation  that  others  have  created,  makes 
a  greater  good  possible  for  himself  and  Eppie  ?  Again,  Godfrey 
absolutely  shirks  his  duty  here — is  a  coward  and  a  liar — and  he 
wins  Nancy.  Are  his  cowardice  and  falsehood  rewarded  with 
good  ?    Does  he  grow  a  worse  or  a  better  man  from  this  time  I 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  291 

Does  he  really  love  Nancy  ?  Does  his  love  belong  to  the  good  in 
him  or  to  the  bad  ?  Does  the  author  play  fast  and  loose  with  the 
truth  in  her  treatment  of  Godfrey's  sin  and  its  consequences! 
Does  she  let  his  acts  go  without  their  natural  consequences  ?  Of 
course,  these  questions  can  not  be  answered  from  this  chapter 
alone,  but  must  be  carried  with  us  to  the  end. 

P.  182,  26.  lie  had  not  seen  the  child  for  months.  Has  Godfrey 
been  with  his  child  as  a  father  should  be  ?  How  does  this  neglect 
affect  his  feeling  for  it  and  his  action  ?  What  signs  of  Godfrey's 
feeling  a  father's  love  for  Eppie,  or  of  the  possibility  of  his  feeling 
it,  are  to  be  found  in  this  chapter  ? 

P.  184,  6.  What  chUd  is  it  1  Who  asks  this  question,  and  of 
whom  I  Do  circumstances  here  exert  any  pressure  on  Godfrey  to 
make  him  false  ?  But  who  is  mainly  responsible  for  the  circum- 
stances? Are  we  surprised  at  Godfrey's  lie?  What  has  prepared 
him  for  this  choice?  Is  it  really  sudden ?  Do  we  pardon  him  I 
Should  our  desire  that  Silas  may  keep  Eppie  influence  our  judg- 
ment of  Godfrey  ? 

P.  184, 19.  I  can't  part  with  it.    Why  does  not  this  surprise  usf 

P.  186,  29.  No,  not  quite  unconscious.  Is  there  still  a  chance  for 
Godfrey  to  be  honest? 

P.  188,  7.  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years.  An  anticipation  of  what 
scene  ?    The  effect  of  such  anticipation  ? 

P.  188,  30.  You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish.  Would  Godfrey 
have  owned  Eppie  if  that  had  been  the  only  way  to  save  her  from 
the  parish  ? 

P.  190,  22.  And  when  events  turn  out.  Whose  half-unconscious 
reasoning  is  summed  up  in  this  paragraph  ?  How  does  the  author 
look  at  it  ? 

CHAPTER  XIV 

What  change  begins  in  Silas's  life  with  the  coming  of  Eppie  f 
How  does  this  chapter  enable  us  to  appreciate  the  change,  and  to 
feel  no  surprise  at  the  picture  of  Silas  and  Eppie  in  Part  lit 
What  is  the  natural  human  feeling  toward  babyhood  and  child- 
hood? What  makes  this  feeling  very  strong  in  case  of  Eppie? 
How  does  the  care  of  Eppie  change  Silas's  attitude  toward  the 
community  ?  And  how  does  his  taking  Eppie  change  the  com- 
munity's attitude  toward  Silas  ?  What  are  the  reasons  for  these 
changes  *    What  is  the  secret  of  Dolly's  helpfulness  ?    Why  does 


292  SILAS  MARNER 

a  new  and  deeper  pity  for  Godfrey  rise  in  us  as  we  watch  Eppie's 
unfolding  life?  What  is  he  cutting  himself  off  from?  Is  the 
story  of  Silas  and  Eppie  carried  far  enough  in  this  chapter  for  us 
to  realize  that  Silas  is  coming  to  himself  again,  or,  rather,  coming 
to  a  richer  life  than  he  had  known  before  ?  Why  do  we  not  need 
to  follow  them  through  the  intervening  years  to  understand  them 
in  Part  II  ? 

P.  198, 14.  And  whatever's  right  for  it  i'  this  country.  How  does 
this  desire  serve  to  change  Silas's  relations  to  the  world  about 
him? 

P.  208, 11.  The  disposition  to  hoard.  If  Eppie  had  come  to  Silas 
before  the  gold  was  taken,  what  would  he  have  done  ? 

CHAPTER  XV 

A  glimpse  of  Godfrey's  state  of  mind,  of  his  purposes  and  his 
dreams.  Why  does  Godfrey  seem  to  others  and  to  himself  to  be 
reformed  ?  Are  his  chances  of  becoming  a  good  man,  on  the 
whole,  greater  than  if  Molly  had  lived?  Why "^ is  he  so  little 
uneasy  about  Eppie  ?  Has  he  capacity  for  feeling  a  father's  lovei 
Why  is  it  not  wholly  inconsistent  that  he  should  dream  with  305 
of  a  home  with  Nancy  with  their  children  on  the  hearth,  while  he 
leaves  Eppie  to  a  stranger?  What  is  the  author's  judgment  on 
Godfrey  here  ?  What  is  such  "  father's  duty  "  as  Godfrey  recog- 
nizes worth?  Does  the  author's  tone  in  this  chapter  make  us 
expect  Godfrey's  dreams  to  be  fully  realized?  Is  there  such  a 
thing  as  being  a  hypocrite  in  one's  own  presence  ? 


PAET  II 

Is  the  division  of  the  book  into  two  parts  demanded  by  the 
author's  handling  of  the  story  ?  We  are  to  see  here  the  issue  of 
forces  that  were  set  at  work  where  ? 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  first  chapter  of  this  book  begins  with  a  paragraph  that  is 
touched  with  a  sense  of  loneliness  and  mystery,  and  gives  us  the 
haunting  picture  of  the  dark  figure  of  the  weaver  on  the  upland, 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  293 

outlined  against  the  winder  sunset.  Note  the  contrast  with  that 
made  by  tnis  present  chapter  and  its  picture  of  Silas  and  Eppie* 
The  first  paragraph  here  gives  us  what  feeling,  and  makes  us 
expect  what  if  What  reassurance  does  the  chapter  give  us  about 
Godfrey  and  Nancy  before  it  turns  to  Silas?  Why  do  we  taka 
such  comfort  in  strolling  back  to  the  cottage  with  Silas  and  Eppi& 
and  Aaron,  and  listening  to  their  talk  ?  What  makes  the  cottage 
seem  so  different  now  as  we  approach  it  ?  What  artistic  purpose 
is  served  by  the  cat  and  kitten,  and  dog,  and  even  the  limping 
donkey?  Coming  after  the  scenes  of  desolation  and  just  before 
Godfrey's  effort  co  claim  Eppie,  what  end  does  this  scene  of  the 
happiness  and  perfect  love  of  Silas  and  Eppie  serve  ?  And  how 
does  the  love  of  Aaron  and  Eppie  affect  the  situation  when  God- 
frey claims  his  child  ? 

P.  215,  21.  for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us.  What  does  this  tell 
us  of  Godfrey  that  it  can  not  tell  Silas  ? 

P.  215,  33.  else  mother  '11  be  in  trouble.  What  assurance  about 
Aaron  does  this  give  us  f 

P.  219,  11.  Silas  bad  taken  to  smoking.  How  is  Silas's  smoking 
made  to  introduce  the  retrospective  view  of  the  gradual  merging 
of  his  life  with  the  community  life  ? 

P.  219,  33.  a  consciousness  of  unity  between  bis  past  and  present 
Some  commentators  object  to  the  author's  emphasis  upon  the  im« 
portance  of  such  a  consciousness  to  Silas,  on  the  ground  that,  to 
so  simple  a  nature  as  Silas's,  it  is  not  a  need.  But  is  not  George 
Eliot  right  ?  Her  wording  of  the  need  is,  of  course,  quite  foreign 
to  Silas ;  but  is  not  a  sense  of  permanent  personal  identity,  a  sense 
that  "  I  am  I,"  the  last  thing  that  anybody — the  simplest  natured 
or  the  most  complex,  the  happiest  or  the  most  miserable — the  last 
thing  that  anybody  is  willing  to  give  up  ?  And  in  tracing  the 
slow  and  painful  growth  of  Silas  from  his  dazed  and  lost  state  into 
self-consciousness  is  she  not  tracing  his  recovery  from  a  state  that 
was  next  to  annihilation  back  to  life? 

P.  224,  5.  there's  dealings  with  us.    Is  Silas's  faith  in  God  re- 
stored through  human  love  and  the  restoration  of  his  faith  in 
man  ?   ils  his  present  groping  trust  worth  as  much  as  that  earlier  ■ 
untried  faith  ? 

P.  224,  26-27.  Tbe  tender  and  peculiar  love.  Does  the  author  ex- 
plain Eppie's  refinement  and  charm  by  her  being  of  gentle  birth  f 
How,  then  ? 


294  SILAS  MARNER 

P.  225,  24.  who  her  mother  was.  These  thoughts  about  her 
mother  prepare  her  for  what  feeling  toward  her  father  when  he  is 
revealed  to  her? 

P.  227,  8.  how  the  water's  gone  down.  A  preparation  for  what 
that  is  coining  ? 

P.  227, 16.  It  was  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass.  The  discovery  of  Dunstan's 
body,  then,  which  leads  to  Godfrey's  confession  and  the  catastro- 
phe, or  culmination,  of  both  stories,  comes  about  through  whose 
instrumentality  ? 

CHAPTER  XVII 

A  picture  of  Godfrey  and  Nancy's  life  together.  What  is  the 
one  shadow  upon  it?  How  has  Godfrey  tried  to  remove  that? 
What  in  Nancy  has  prevented  his  succeeding?  What  in  himself? 
On  the  whole,  is  their  marriage  happy?  Are  they  themselves  bet- 
ter or  worse  than  they  would  have  been  without  it?  What  devel- 
opment can  we  perceive  in  each  of  them,  and  what  is  it  due  to  ? 
In  the  structure  of  the  chapter,  notice  how  the  family  party  at 
dinner  in  the  oak  parlor,  recalling  by  contrast  the  dreary  break- 
fast scene  in  Chapter  III,  is  made  indicative  of  the  change  intro- 
duced by  Nancy's  entering  the  family.  Note,  too,  how  the  first 
paragraph  suggests  the  childlessness  that  is  really  the  theme  of 
the  chapter.  ^^  Observe  how  the  conversation  of  Nancy  and  Pris- 
cilla  is  made  a  natural  preface  to  Nancy's  musings ;  and  again  how 
effective  a  preparation  is  thus  made  for  the  revelation  of  Godfrey's 
secret  in  the  next  chapter. 

P.  237,  26-27.  it  is  much  worse  for  a  man.  Is  it  really  so  ?  Was 
it  really  harder  for  Godfrey  than  for  Nancy  ? 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Why  is  it  more  effective  to  give  Godfrey's  confession  a  chapter 
by  itself  than  it  would  have  been  to  add  it  to  the  preceding  chap- 
ter? What  has  kept  Godfrey  from  confessing  all  these  years? 
What  finally  brings  him  to  it  ?  Are  Godfrey  and  Nancy  in  this 
scene  both  consistent  with  their  characters  as  seen  hitherto? 
Which  of  the  two  has  the  larger  nature— the  greater  capacity  for 
loving  and  for  right  doing  ?  How  is  our  feeling  for  them  affected 
by  this  scene  ?  Does  our  sympathy  with  them  go  so  far  as  to 
make  us  wish  them  success  in  their  visit  to  Silas  and  Eppie  ? 


COMMENTS  AND  QUESTIONS  295 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  culmination  of  Silas's  story  and  of  Godfrey's.  The  artistic 
skill  with  which  this  story  is  constructed  is  in  nothing  more  note- 
worthy than  in  the  relation  of  the  subordinate  plot  to  the  princi- 
pal plot.  Godfrey's  story  is  distinctly  subordinate  to  Silas's,  yet 
is  absolutely  essential  to  it.  We  found  the  climax  of  each  in  the 
act  of  Silas  in  taking  for  his  own  the  helpless,  clinging  little  life 
that  Godfrey,  the  father,  at  the  same  instant  disowned.  We  now 
find  a  similar  contact  of  the  two  stories  in  their  culmination.  The 
moment  that  marks  for  us  Silas's  complete  restoration  to  human 
life  through  unselfish  love  that  would  even  renounce  its  own  sole 
joy  for  the  good  of  the  loved  one,  marks  also  to  Godfrey  the  irrepa- 
rable nature  of  his  own  act.  It  is  sometimes  said  that  George 
Eliot  lets  Godfrey  off  too  easily.  Does  she?  It  is  said  that  his 
deed  is  not  visited  upon  him  in  a  sufficiently  stern  retribution.  Is 
it  not?  Is  she  untrue  to  life  in  presenting  mitigating  circum- 
stances attending  his  sin  ?  Does  she  violate  truth  in  suffering  the 
consequences  of  his  sin  to  remain  as  unknown  to  the  world  as  the 
sin  had  been  ?  And  in  doing  these  things  does  she  fail  to  let  his 
act  bring  its  own  natural  consequence — fail  to  make  us  feel  that 
that  consequence  is  a  natural  and  inevitable  retribution  ? 

CHAPTER  XX 

How  does  this  scene  serve  to  emphasize  Godfrey's  recognition 
of  the  retribution  that  has  come  upon  him  ?  Does  it  do  anything 
more  for  us?  What  feeling  about  Nancy  and  Godfrey  does  it 
leave  in  us  by  its  picture  of  their  mutual  trust  and  steadfast  affec- 
tion ?    What  promise  does  it  give  for  the  future  ? 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Poetic  justice  and  visible  return  of  the  deed  upon  the  doer 
would  require  that  the  matter  of  the  theft  of  the  church  money  in 
Lantern  Yard  should  be  cleared  up,  Silas  restored  to  the  respect 
of  his  old  friends,  and  William  Dane  punished.  Would  that  be 
more  in  accordance  with  the  truth  of  life  than  to  leave  it  still  a 
mystery,  as  the  author  does?'.  Would  it  be  really  more  satisfactory 
to  us  ?    Which  ending:  would  ^ive  us  a  deeper  sense  of  the  fullness 


)' 


296  SILAS  MARKER 

and  the  sufficingness  of  the  life  that  love  and  fellowship  have 
brought  to  Silas "?  And  which  would  have  the  haunting  fascina- 
tion of  life  itself  and  its  unsolved  mysteries  ? 

CONCLUSION 

Compare  this  final  picture  of  Silas's  peaceful,  happy  life  in 
Raveloe  with  the  picture  of  his  first  fifteen  years  there.  Note  how 
completely  he  has  become  a  part  of  the  life  about  him,  even  while 
his  exceptional  experience  gives  him  in  /bur  eyes  and  the  eyes  of 
the  villagers  a  certain  distinction.  Who  speaks  our  feeling  of 
content  and  satisfaction  with  this  rounding  out  of  Silas's  life! 
The  sadness  that  we  perhaps  still  feel,  and  the  pity,  are  reserved 
for  whom  ? 


APPENDIX 


The  following  are  some  of  the  questions  on  Silas  Marner  set 
at  the  college-entrance  examinations  of  '96  and  '97,  when  Silas 
Marner  was  on  '  the  required  list '  of  college-entrance  texts, — to 
which  list  it  has  again  been  restored.  And  inasmuch  as  the  method 
of  secondary  school  study  of  literature  approved  at  various  col- 
leges may  to  some  extent  be  inferred  from  the  character  of  the 
entrance  examinations  set  by  these  colleges,  in  addition  to  the 
questions  on  Silas  Marner  there  is  given  also  some  complete  lists 
of  college-entrance  examination  questions  in  English.  The  usage 
of  each  college  has  been  followed  respecting  the  use  of  capital 
letters,  etc. 

Write  a  paragraph  or  two  on  .  .  .  The  Tragedy  of  "  Silas  Mar- 
ker."'   [New  York  University,  June  '96.] 

Write  a  short  essay  on  .  .  .  Silas  Marner.    [Williams,  June  '96.] 

Write  a  paragraph  or  two  on  .  .  .  (c)  Story  of  the  Theft  of 
Marner's  Gold,  {d)  The  Character  of  Godfrey  Cass.  [Brown, 
June  '96.] 

The  Weaver  before  and  after  the  Ministration  of  Eppie. 
[Tufts,  June  '96.] 

The  stealing  of  Marner's  gold  and  his  discovery  of  Eppie. 
[Cornell,  June  '96.] 

The  theft  of  Marner's  gold  and  its  restoration.  [Cornell, 
Sept.  '96.] 

Describe  the  character  of  Silas  Marner,  as  shown  (a)  while  he 
lived  at  Lantern  Yard,  (5)  when  he  arrived  at  Raveloe,  (c)  when 
.  his  gold  was  stolen,  {d)  when  Mrs.  Cass  offered  to  adopt  Eppie. 
Dwell  specially  on  those  characteristics  which  pertain  to  the  fun- 
damental thought  of  the  work,  i.e.  Marner's  loss  of  faith,  his 
deterioration  in  character,  and  the  means  of  his  redemption.  [Uni- 
versity of  the  State  of  New  York,  Jan.  '97.] 

297 


298  SILAS  MARNER 

Write  on  one  of  the  following  topics  from  Silas  Marner :  (a) 
the  inhabitants  of  Raveloe,  (&)  Marner's  loss  of  his  gold  and  hiy 
discovery  of  Eppie,  (c)  the  draining  of  the  stone-pits,  {d)  Eppie'« 
wedding.     [University  of  the  State  of  New  York,  March  '97.] 

(b)  Discuss  the  character  of  Nancy  Lammeter.  (c)  Discuss  the 
character  of  Marner.     [Browm,  June  '97.] 

Write  one  or  two  paragraphs  on  ...  3.  The  Character  of  God- 
frey Cass.  4.  The  Transformation  of  Silas  Marner.  [Amherst, 
June  '97.] 

Death  of  Dunstan  Cass  and  discovery  of  his  remains.  [Cornell, 
June  '97.] 

Write  a  short  essay  on,  *The  Turning-point  in  the  Life  of 
Silas  Marner.'    [Swarthmore,  '97.] 

Write,  with  due  attention  to  the  form  of  your  work,  short 
essays  upon  ...  9.  The  Disappearance  of  Dunstan  Cass.  10. 
Silas  Marner's  Visit  to  his  early  Home.  [Johns  Hopkins,. 
June  '97.] 

Write  one  or  two  paragraphs  on  .  .  .  {k)  How  Silas  Marner 
became  a  Miser;  {I)  The  Stone  Pit.     [Tufts,  June  '97.] 

Explain  the  change  wrought  in  Silas  by  the  foster  child. 
[Union,  June  '97.] 

Show  how  Eppie  transformed  the  character  of  Silas  Marner.. 
[Wesleyan,  June  '97.] 

Tell  Eppie's  story  as  she  would  have  told  it  to  Aaron.  [Vassar^ 
June  '97.] 

Write  a  paragraph  or  two  on  .  .  .  The  Flight  of  Silas  Marner. 
[Williams,  June  '97.] 

Write  not  more  than  four  hundred  words  on  .  .  .  The  Author 
of  Silas  Marner.     [Yale,  June  '97.] 

Write,  with  due  attention  to  the  form  of  your  work,  short 
essays  upon  ...  9.  Silas  Marner  and  William  Dane.  10.  How 
the  Loss  of  Silas  Marner's  Money  was  made  good  to  him.  [Johns- 
Hopkins,  Sept.  '97.] 

Why  does  George  Eliot  in  Silas  Marner  give  detailed  descrip- 
tions of  the  scenes  in  the  Rainbow,  of  the  dance  at  Squire  Cass's,. 
of  the  visit  to  Lantern  Yard  ?    [Vassar,  Sept.  '97.] 

Show  whether  Silas  would  have  loved  and  cared  for  Eppie  if  he-- 
had  not  lost  his  gold.    [Vassar,  Sept.  '97.] 

Write  several  paragraphs  on  .  .  . 

VII.  Silas  Marner  in  Raveloe  before  his  finding  of  Eppie. 


APPENDIX  299 

VIII.  What  is  the  retribution  that  Godfrey  Cass  suffers  for  his 
misdeeds  ? 

IX.  The  villagers  of  Raveloe.     [Chicago,  Dec.  '97.] 

Give  notes  on  the  terms  in  one  of  the  following  [four]  para- 
graphs : 

a  Eppie,  Raveloe,  Nancy,  the  stone-pits,  Godfrey's  confession. 
[Minnesota  High  School  Board,  '99.] 


AMHERST   COLLEGE 

ENTRANCE  EXAMINATION 

English 
June  23,  1899 

No  ca7ididate  will  be  accepted  in  English  whose  work  is  notably 
deficient  in  point  of  spelling,  punctuation,  idiom  or  division  into. 


I. 

Write  a  short  composition  on  each  of  three  topics  taken  from 
the  list  below. 

1.  The  story  of  Palamon  and  Arcite. 

2.  The  tournament  in  "  Palamon  and  Arcite.'* 

3.  A  description  of  the  temple  of  Mars. 

4.  The  meaning  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner." 

5.  The  calm  in  "  The  Ancient  Mariner." 

6.  Some  characteristics  of  Coleridge's  verse. 

7.  Maule's  well. 

8.  The  preludes  in  "  Sir  Launfal." 

9.  A  brief  sketch  of  the  life  of  Dryden. 
10.  A  brief  sketch  of  the  life  of  Coleridge. 

II. 
Carlyle's  "Essay  on  Burns" 

1.  State  the  main  facts  in  the  life  of  Burns. 

2.  State  what  you  know  of  the  life  of  Carlyle,  and  name  his 
most  important  works. 

3.  What  are,  according  to  Carlyle,  the  chief  excellencies  of 
Burns  as  a  poet! 


300  SILAS  MARNER 

4.  What  does  Carlyle  consider  to  be  "  the  most  finished,  com- 
plete, and  truly  inspired  pieces  of  Burns,"  and  why  ? 

5.  Explain  the  cause  of  Burns's  failure. 

6.  Compare  Byron  and  Burns. 

7.  Explain  fully  the  following  passage:  "For  was  not  this 
grim  Celt,  this  shaggy  Northland  Cacus,  that '  lived  a  life  of  sturt 
and  strife,  and  died  by  treacherie,'  was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nim- 
rods  and  Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his  own  remote 
misty  glens,  for  want  of  a  clearer  and  wider  one  ?  " 


COLUMBIA  COLLEGE 

ENTRANCE  EXAMINATION  IN  ENGLISH 
June,  1899 

Note. — Time  allowed,  two  and  a  half  hours.  Candidates  offer- 
ing English  as  a  preliminary  subject  will  take  I  only.  Candidates 
taking  both  parts  of  the  paper  are  recommended  not  to  spend  more 
than  an  hour  and  a  quarter  on  I.  Under  II  any  two  groups  of 
questions,  except  A  and  E,  may  be  omitted.  Candidates  should 
write  with  care  and  should  read  over  their  answers  before  handing 
them  in. 

I. — Reading. 

Write  two  essays,  of  several  paragraphs  each,  on  subjects 
selected  from  the  following  groups.  The  subjects  must  not  be 
chosen  from  the  same  group. 

1.  Pope's  Iliad:  (a)  Andromache;  (b)  The  Funeral  of  Hec- 
tor. 

2.  Dryden's  Falamon  and  Arcite :  (a)  The  Tournament;  (b) 
How  Dryden  Changed  Chaucer's  Poetry. 

3.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield:  {a)  Moses  at  the  Fair;  (b)  The 
,  Vicar's  Faith  in  Mankind. 

4.  The  Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe :  (a)  The  Hardships  of  the 
Desert ;  {b)  The  End  of  the  Journey. 

5.  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans :  (a)  The  Night  in  the  Cave ; 
(b)  Cooper's  Descriptions  of  Nature. 

6.  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers :  (a)  Sir  Roger  and  the 
People  on  his  Estate ;  (b)  The  Spectator  and  the  Other  Members 
of  the  Club. 


APPENDIX  301 

II. — Study. 
A. — Old  Man.    Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well : 
Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I  have  seen 
Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange ;  but  this  sore  night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Ross.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act. 
Threaten  his  bloody  stage :  by  the  clock  'tis  day, 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp. 
Is't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  f 

Old  Man.  'Tis  unnatural. 

Even  like  the  deed  that's  don^.    On  Tuesday  last, 
A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place. 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd. 

1.  What  night  is  referred  to  in  the  expression  this  sore  night  f 

2.  *J^^5  unnatural^  Even  like  the  deed  that's  done:  What  deed! 

3.  A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place,  Was  hy  a  mousing  owl 
hawk'd  at  and  JcilVd.  Of  what  character,  in  general,  are  the  ref- 
erences in  Macbeth  to  the  phenomena  of  nature  ?  4.  Quote,  if  pos- 
sible, other  passages  similar  to  this  in  tone  and  import.  5.  What 
is  the  dramatic  significance  of  these  passages  ?  6.  What,  in  your 
own  language,  is  the  meaning  of  the  expressions.  Within  the  vol- 
ume of  which  time,  Hath  trifled  former  knowings,  and  And  yet 
dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp  f 

B. — They  heard  and  were  abash'd,  and  up  they  sprung 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch. 
On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread, 
•    Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  general's  voice  they  soon  obey'd. 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 
Wav'd  round  the  coast,  up  call'd  a  pitchy  cloud 
Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 


302  SILAS  MARNER 

Like  night,  and  darken'd  all  the  land  of  Nile : 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  hell, 
'Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires. 

1.  What  is  the  scene  referred  to  in  the  lines  quoted  above  t 
2.  What  is  the  grammatical  construction  of  the  clause  as  when, 
men  wont  to  watch^  On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread, 
Bouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake  f  What,  in  your  own 
words,  is  the  meaning  of  these  lines?  3.  Comment  on  the  nega- 
tives in  lines  5  and  6.  4.  Account  for  the  word  to  in  line  7.  5.. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  the  words  wont^  pitchy^  warping^  cope  9 

C. — 1.  In  what  metre  are  1  and  II  written  ?  2.  Which  of  the 
two  passages  conforms,  on  the  whole,  more  strictly  to  the  regular 
metre  ?  3.  Scan,  in  the  speech  of  Ross  in  I,  the  first  three  com- 
plete lines. 

D. — 1.  What,  in  Carlyle's  opinion,  are  the  chief  merits  of  the 
poetry  of  Burns?  2.  How  did  Burns  bring  back  to  English  litera- 
ture a  spirit  of  independence  f  3.  How  far  does  Carlyle  consider 
the  world  responsible  for  Burns's  failure  and  his  early  death  % 

E. — As  the  growing  population  in  the  Colonies  is  evidently  one 
cause  of  their  resistance,  it  was  last  session  mentioned  in 
both  Houses,  by  men  of  weight,  and  received  not  without 
applause,  that^  in  order  to  check  this  evil,  it  would  be  proper 
for  the  crown  to  maJce  no  further  grants  of  land.  But  to  this 
scheme  there  are  two  objections.  The  first,  that  there  is  al- 
ready so  much  unsettled  land  in  private  hands  as  to  afford 
room  for  an  immense  future  population,  although  the  crown 
not  only  withheld  its  grants,  but  annihilated  its  soil. 

1.  One  cause  of  their  resistance :  What  other  causes  are  enu- 
merated by  Burke?  2.  What  remedies  did  he  propose  ?  3.  What 
is  the  grammatical  function  of  the  phrases  and  clauses  italicized 
in  the  passage  ?  4.  Parse  the  words  weight,  received,  objecti^nSy 
afford,  annihilated. 


APPENDIX  303 

COENELL  UNIVEESITY 

ENTRANCE  EXAMINATION 

September  17,  1897. 

General  Directions.  . 
a.  The  number  of  each  answer  should  correspond  to  the  nuny* 
bering  helow. 

h.  Leave  a  vacant  line  between  every  two  answers, 

c.  Indent  each  paragraph  at  least  one  inch, 

d.  Do  not  break  words  at  line-ends, 

A — List. 
[Time,  one  hour.    Write  about  200  words  in  all ;  avoid  using 
the  historical  present.    Answer  any  three  of  the  questions  num- 
bered 1-6,    But  do  not  answer  both  1  and  2,  both  S  and  4.] 

1.  The  character  of  Silas  Marner  before  and  after  the  coming 
of  Eppie. 

2.  The  character  of  Godfrey  Cass. 

3.  The  breaking  up  of  the  Acadian  settlement. 

4.  Evangeline's  quest  of  Gabriel. 

5.  Buckthorne  as  a  strolling  player. 

6.  The  love-making  of  Orlando  and  Rosalind. 

B — List. 
[Time,  two  hours.    Answer  7,  8,  9,  and  either  10  or  ii.] 

7.  Sketch  (in  two  paragraphs,  about  150  words  in  all)  the  John- 
son Club  and  the  relation  between  Johnson  and  Boswell.  [Do  not 
use  the  historical  present.] 

8.  Sketch  (in  three  paragraphs,  about  200  words  in  all)  the 
character  of  Marmion,  his  crimes,  his  death.  [Do  not  use  the  his- 
torical present.] 

9.  State  and  discuss  (in  two  paragraphs,  about  200  words  in 
all)  Burke's  "  objections  to  the  use  of  force,"  and  his  "  six  capital 
sources  "of  the  "fierce  spirit  of  liberty"  in  America.  [Use  th^ 
historical  present.] 

10.  The  character  of  Bassanio ;  about  75  words.  [Do  not  use 
the  historical  present.] 

11.  The  character  of  Portia;  about  75  words.  [Do  not  u%e  the 
historical  present,] 


304  SILAS  MARNER 

UNIVEESITY   OF  PENNSYLVANIA.      ^ 

ENTRANCE  EXAMINATION,  JUNE,  1899 

English. 

Time :  Two  hours.    For  those  taking  A  or  B  only :  One  hour. 

Note. — "  No  candidate  will  be  accepted  in  English  whose  work 
is  notably  defective  in  spelling,  punctuation,  idiom  or  division  intc 
paragraphs." — Extract  from  the  University  Catalogue, 

A. 

1.  Analyze  the  following  sentence,  and  parse  in  full  all  words 
printed  in  italics : 

In  this  light,  the  meanest  philosopher,  though  all  his  posses- 
sionis  are  his  lamp  or  his  cell,  is  more  truly  valuable  than  he  whose 
name  echoes  to  the  shout  of  the  million,  and  who  stands  in  all  the 
glare  of  admiration. 

2.  Write  a  composition  of  not  less  than  three  hundred  words 
on  any  one  of  the  following  subjects  taken  from  the  required 
reading : 

The  Story  of  Hector. 
The  Adventures  of  Uncas. 
Sir  Launfal  and  the  Leper. 
The  Ancient  Mariner. 

Candidates  taking  A  only  may  substitute  one  of  the  following 
subjects : 

The  Uses  of  Electricity. 
The  Battle  of  Lexington. 
York  and  Lancaster. 

B. 

I. 

1.  Comment  briefly  upon  the  following  topics  drawn  from  th« 
required  reading : 

a.  Emilia. 

h.  The  Character  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

c.  Gains  and  Losses  Resulting  from  the  Flight  of  the  Tartars 

d,  Clifford  Pyncheon. 

2.  Name  one  or  more  of  Dryden's  contemporaries.  What  are 
the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  f  Tell  what  you  can  of  Haw- 
thorne's life. 


APPENDIX  806 

II. 

1.  In  what  acts  of  Macbeth  do  the  witches  appear  f  What  is 
their  prophecy  with  regard  to  Birnam  Wood  ?  In  what  scene  of 
what  act  does  this  prophecy  meet  with  fulfillment  i 

2.  Give  a  brief  outline  of  the  first  book  of  Paradise  Lost, 
What  is  the  metre  of  the  poem  1    Scan  the  following  line : 

A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king. 

3.  What  opinion  does  Carlyle  express  of  the  songs  of  Burns  f 

4.  What  explanation  does  Burke  give  of  the  love  of  liberty 
among  the  Americans  f 


PEmCETO:^r  UNIVEESITY 

ACADEMIC  FRESHMAN  ENTRANCE  EXAMINATIONS 

English. 

Friday,  June  16,  1899. 

1.30—6  p.  M. 

The  examination  will  be  based  upon  the  books  prescribed  by 

the  uniform  entrance  requirements  in  English.     Questions  as  to 

the  subject  matter,  structure,  and  style  of  these  books  will  be 

asked.     Candidates  must  be  prepared  in  all  of  the  books  required 

for  the  year  of  entrance.     For  1899  the  books  prescribed  are :  .  .  o 

^-Princeton  Catalogue, 

A. 

Have  you  read  all  the  books  required  for  study  and  reading  f 
If  not,  name  those  you  have  omitted. 

1.  What  are  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  story  of  Pala- 
mon  and  Arcite  ? 

2.  Who  were  Chryses,  Hecuba,  Briseis,  Andromache,  PelidesI 

3.  Describe  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  household. 

4.  What  is  the  cause  of  the  continued  popularity  of  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  9 

5.  What  happened  at  the  Lake  of  Tengis  ? 

6.  Describe  one  of  Hawkeye's  famous  shots  with  his  rifle. 

7.  Of  what  use  are  the  preludes  in  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  f 

8.  What  are  the  admirable  traits  in  Holgrave's  character! 


306  SILAS  MARNER 

Of  these  eight  questions,  candidates  who  are  taking  their  final 
English  may  choose  five. 

Candidates  taking  in  1899  a  preliminary  examination  upon  the 
books  assigned  for  reading  (not  for  study)  in  1900  will  be  expected 
to  answer  all  the  above  questions,  and  also  the  two  following : 

9.  Contrast  the  personal  appearance  of  Rowena  with  Rebecca 
(Scott's  Ivanhoe). 

10.  Why  did  the  experiment  of  the  Ladies'  College  fail  f  (Ten- 
jyson's  Princess.) 

B. 

1.  a.  Give  a  brief  outline  of  the  third  act  of  Macbeth, 
h.  If  it  be  so. 

For  Banquo^s  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind ; 
For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murdered ; 
Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 
6.) — Only  for  them,  and  mine  eternal  jewel 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man. 
Under  what  circumstances  does  Macbeth  speak  these  words  f 
Explain  the  italicised  words  and  phrases.     To  what  does  "  t7,"  lin© 
1,  refer?    Scan  line  5,  marking  feet  and  accent. 

2.  a.  What  were  the  successive  incidents  of  Satan's  journey 
when  he  left  the  infernal  regions  ? 

h.  What  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  other  leaders 
among  the  fallen  angels? 

3.  a.  Account  for  Burke's  sympathy  with  America. 

h.  Give  a  brief  outline  of  his  entire  argument  for  con- 
ciliation. 

4.  a.  Summarize  the  closing  paragraphs  of  Carlyle's  Essay  on 
Burns, 

b.  Why  was  Carlyle  naturally  fitted  to  sympathize  with 
Burns  ? 

VASSAK   COLLEGE 

ENTRANCE  EXAMINATION,  JUNE,  1899 
English 
Each  candidate  is  expected  to  spend  about  half  the  examina- 
tion period  in  discussing  any  one  of  the  following  questions,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  time  in  answering  four  others  clearly  but 


APPENDIX  307 

briefly — if  necessary  by  a  single  sentence.  Not  more  than  three 
of  all  the  questions  answered  may  be  taken  from  either  section. 
Judgment  on  the  paper  will  be  based  largely  on  accuracy  and  cor- 
rectness of  expression. 

I. 

1.  Describe  the  character  of  Macbeth:  {a)  just  before  the  play 
begins ;  (b)  in  Act  III. ;  (c)  in  Act  V. 

2.  Why  is  Paradise  Lost  called  an  epic  ?  How  does  it  differ 
from  the  Homeric  epics  ? 

3.  Give,  in  a  paragraph,  the  argument  of  Burke's  Speech  on 
Conciliation  with  America. 

4.  What  is  Carlyle's  conception  of  the  true  biography  ?  How 
far  does  Shakespeare's  treatment  of  Macbeth  conform  to  this 
ideal? 

II. 

1.  What  was  gained  by  making  the  Ancient  Mariner  address 
a  wedding  guest  ? 

2.  Compare  and  contrast  the  themes  of  The  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal  and  The  Ancient  Mariner, 

3.  How  did  Hawthorne's  temperament  influence  his  choice  and 
treatment  of  subject  in  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  ? 

4.  Write  a  description  contrasting  Judge  Pyncheon  and  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley. 

5.  As  a  medium  for  character-study,  what  are  the  advantages 
and  disadvantages  incident  to  the  autobiographical  form  of  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  ? 

6.  What  modifications  in  the  character  of  Achilles  would  be 
necessary  to  make  him  a  modern  hero? 

7.  In  The  Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe,  how  does  De  Quincey's  use 
of  natural  scenery  help  to  impress  upon  us  the  tremendous  nature 
«f  the  events  described  ? 


YALE   COLLEGE 

EXAMINATION  PAPERS,  1898-'99 
English 

The  purpose  of  this  examination  is  to  test  (1)  the  candidate's 
knowledge  and  appreciation  of  certain  specified  works,  and  (2)  his 


308  SILAS  MARKER 

ability  to  write  correctly.  As  bearing  on  the  latter  point,  he  is 
advised  to  go  over  his  paper  carefully,  before  the  end  of  the  time 
allowed,  correcting  any  inaccuracies,  not  neglecting  capitals  and 
punctuation. 

A— Preliminary  Paper 
[Time  allowed,  50  minutes.] 

1.  Give  in  narrative  form  a  short  account  of  your  preparation 
in  English.  State  (1)  the  school  at  which  you  were  prepared, 
(2)  the  time  spent  upon  English  studies,  (3)  the  number  of  essays 
written,  (4)  the  text-books  used,  (5)  the  books  read  in  connection 
with  the  English  courses. 

2.  Write  not  more  than  three  hundred  words  on  each  of  four 
topics  selected  by  yourself  from  the  following  list : — 

The  Adventures  of  Uncas. 

The  Parting  of  Heotor  and  Andromache. 

The  Tournament  at  Athens. 

The  Funeral  Rites  of  Arcite. 

The  Scene  at  the  Lake  of  Tengis. 

The  Causes  of  the  Sufferings  endured  by  the  Tartars  in  theii 

Flight. 
A  Sketch  of  De  Quincey's  Life. 
The  Experiences  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  between  the  Death 

of  his  Companion  and  the  Dialogue  of  the  Two  Voices. 
The  Adventures  of  George  Primrose. 
The  Amusements  of  Satan's  Followers  in  Hell. 
Burns  at  Edinburgh. 
Nelson  at  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar. 

B — Final  Paper 
[Time  allowed,  60  minutes.] 

1.  Give  in  narrative  form  a  short  account  of  your  preparation 
in  English.  .  .  . 

2.  Quote  some  complete  song  from  The  Princess. 

3.  At  the  word,  they  raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 

With  fair  Corinna's  triumph  ;  here  she  stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek. 
The  woman-conqueror;  woman-conquered  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten  thousand  hymns, 


APPENDIX  309 

And  all  the  men  mourned  at  his  side  ;  but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb ;  then,  climbing,  Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche^  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mi?ie  affianced. 
Comment  on  the  italicized  expressions.    Relate  what  you  know 
of  each  of  these  persons  up  to  the  time  here  indicated. 

4.  Name  some  of  Burke's  friends.  How  had  he  prepared  him- 
self for  his  business  as  a  Parliamentary  speaker?  What  are  the 
first,  second,  and  third  alternatives  he  proposes  for  meeting  the 
disaffection  of  the  Americans  f  What  are  his  four  objections  to 
the  use  of  force  1 

5.  Tell  in  detail  how  Lady  Macbeth  overcomes  Macbeth's  re- 
fusal to  murder  Duncan. 

6.  If 't  be  so. 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind ; 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murdered; 
Put  rancors  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 
Only  for  them,  and  mine  eternal  jewel 
Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man. 
Comment  on  the  italicized  expressions. 


For  additional  lists  of  college-entrance  Bxamination  questions 
in  English  see  some  of  the  other  texts  in  the  *•  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury "  series. 

(32) 


THE   END 


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